


The Buran

by lorcaswhisky (aristofranes)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drastic Measures mostly-compliant, F/F, F/M, Gen, Pre-Season/Series 01, a big dollop of plucky Starfleet ideals, and a hopeful ending, but with added fortune cookies, did I build this ship to wreck?, in the immortal words of florence + the machine, slow burn angst, the tragic tale of the USS Buran, yes i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-04-14 01:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14124849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristofranes/pseuds/lorcaswhisky
Summary: USS BURANCardenas ClassStarfleet Registry NCC-1422“And the end of all our exploringWill be to arrive where we startedAnd know the place for the first time.”January 2256. Captain Gabriel Lorca has a crew of oddballs, a ship held together by duct tape, and a routine. And he wouldn't have it any other way.Until an accident during an ion storm changes everything.A story about the difference between fate and choice, between love and hate; about time, family, and what it really means to be a good captain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> USS BURAN  
> Cardenas Class  
> Starfleet Registry NCC-1422  
>  _“And the end of all our exploring_  
>  _Will be to arrive where we started_  
>  _And know the place for the first time.”_

_ USS  _ BURAN _ : JANUARY, 2256. _

 

_ 05:00 hours. Wake.  _

_ 05:02. Dress. _

_ 05:05. Commence run. _

Captain Gabriel Lorca, USS  _ Buran _ , was a man who liked routine. It was useful. Gave the day structure. Meant everyone knew what was expected. Made it easier to spot when things weren't going right. 

He slowed up a little as he approached the door to deck 2, mentally calculating the reduction in speed required to allow for the way it always stuck slightly before sliding open.

“Morning, Ensign!” he called as he passed Ensign Nico Tasini, who, dressed as Gabriel was in a dark blue t-shirt with the word  _ BURAN _ emblazoned on his chest, was embarking on his own morning run. Gabriel could barely suppress a grin as he left his newest crewmember trailing in his wake.

“M-morning, sir!” 

_ 06:05. Return to Captain's quarters. _

_ 06:06. Rehydrate. Review run stats. _

_ 06:10. Shower. Shave. _

_ 06:25. Uniform. _

_ 06:30. Breakfast. Protein rich. _

_ 06:45. Review overnight transmissions from Command. _

_ 07:00 hours. Ready room. _

“Morning, Captain.” 

Commander Angharad Jones, who after serving with him for the best part of five years had long since memorised his schedule, was already waiting for him. In the early days of their partnership, they had quietly infuriated each other; Jones’s laissez-faire approach to timekeeping, which ensured that she was never  _ technically  _ late but never exactly on time either, had driven Gabriel to distraction, while she had found his fanatical insistence on precise punctuality stifling. But, as time had passed, they had developed an unwavering, if unlikely, alliance. These days, although she would rib him mercilessly about his predictability, Jones had come to understand her role as a vital part of his routine, while Gabriel, in turn, had learned to take himself a little less seriously. No small feat.

Two coffees and a stack of briefings were set on the desk. Gabriel lowered himself into a chair and pulled a mug towards him. 

“Morning, Number One. Anything to report?”

“Not much,” she replied, passing him a PADD. “Bit of a quiet night, really. Oh - but Lieutenant Cardew finally took a look at that scanner.”

“And?” asked Gabriel, taking a sip of coffee.

“Out of alignment. Just like you said.”

“Ha!”

“He's miffed he didn't spot it first, I think.”

“Chalk it up to Captain's intuition.”

“He said you'd say that.”

_ 08:00 hours. Bridge. _

“Captain on the bridge!”

The crew of Delta shift snapped to attention, doing their best to look as though they hadn't started to flag after a long night with little to interest them.

“Alright, everyone,” said Gabriel, eschewing the Captain's chair in favour of standing in his preferred spot by the view screen. “Good work last night. Now get some rest.”

Delta shift shuffled out, and their colleagues from Alpha shift took up their stations. 

“How long?” Gabriel asked, addressing Lieutenant Jak Hazell, who was busy re-adjusting the height of his workstation from that set by his Delta shift colleague to a level he could reach more comfortably from his wheelchair. Hazell suppressed a grin at the Captain's impatience.

“Based on current progress, we should arrive in approximately two hours, sir.”

“Good. Good.”

Ensign Tasini, over at his workstation on the opposite side of the bridge, frowned. According to the calculations on his screen, even if they moved to maximum warp it would still take them at least five hours to arrive at Neuthera Prime, where they were due to carry out a routine inspection of a Federation outpost. Captain Lorca, Tasini knew, had a reputation for exacting standards in all matters, and such a huge mistake could not pass unnoticed. But, barely three weeks into his posting on the  _ Buran _ \- a posting which, it had been made clear to him, he was lucky to get after a series of disappointing grades - Tasini felt it was hardly his place to correct a superior officer. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and hoped for the best. 

The morning passed uneventfully, which only served to heighten Tasini’s sense of impending doom. The Captain, he noticed, seemed especially keen to reach their destination. Tasini watched him pace in front of the view screen for the umpteenth time that morning, arms folded, fingers tapping a drumbeat against his arms.

Jones raised an eyebrow, gently reprimanding him. Gabriel sighed and returned to his chair, where he recommenced his drumming on the armrest. Jones rolled her eyes. On balance, the pacing had been less annoying. 

“Captain?” Lieutenant Hazell said eventually. “It's time.”

“On the view screen.”

Tasini held his breath, unable to believe the catastrophic navigational miscalculation that was surely about to unfold. They were nowhere  _ near _ Neuthera Prime. He couldn't understand how everyone else was so  _ calm _ .

Gabriel sprang to his feet and strode across the length of the bridge until he was stood front and centre, facing the view screen, as the display suddenly burst into colour.

The nebula was even more beautiful than he'd hoped.

“Enhance,” he said, softly.

Lieutenant Commander Sara Xhao exchanged a knowing smile with Jones as she adjusted the display settings. 

The screen was full of colour now. Gabriel felt his breath catch in his throat. He found himself standing so close to the screen that he was practically touching it. 

As far as he was concerned, it wasn't nearly close enough.

Tasini realised that he was staring, and instead turned to Jones for some sort of guidance as to how he should react.

“ _ Is he alright? _ ” he mouthed to her.

Jones stifled a chuckle and nodded. Yes, the Captain was  _ definitely _ alright. Better than alright, in fact.

Gabriel let the colours wash over his face, the stars dancing in his eyes. He wasn't really one for poetry - didn't need it, not with sights like this just waiting to be seen - but sometimes,  _ these  _ times, he’d swear he could hear his soul sing.

This was what it was really all about. Not inspecting outposts or writing reports.  _ This _ .

“You know, my mum always said I'd get square eyes if I sat too close to the screen,” Jones called across the bridge to him eventually.

“I'll take that risk,” murmured Gabriel, only half paying attention to her. “Look at that  _ view.” _

_ “ _ We'd all like to, but your head's in the way,” Jones pointed out. “Sort of ruins the effect a bit.”

Gabriel turned at last, grinning, completely unabashed by the barely concealed laughter from his crew. He finally relinquished his spot, retreating back to his chair, where he sat, taking it all in for a while longer. 

“Oh, alright,” he said, feeling Jones’s look of disapproval at their continued delay burning into the back of his head. “Carry on, Hazell. Neuthera Prime awaits. No need to rush, though.”

*

_ 05:00 hours. Wake.  _

_ 05:02. Dress. _

_ 05:05. Commence run. _

Ensign Tasini was a full twenty metres further down the corridor than usual.

“Morning, Ensign!”

“Morning, sir!”

“Your time's improving. Keep it up!”

“Yes, sir!” Ensign Tasini called after him.

_ 06:05. Return to Captain's quarters. _

_ 06:06. Rehydrate. _

_ 06:08. Shower. Shave. _

_ 06:25. Uniform. _

_ 06:30. Breakfast. _

_ 06:45. Review overnight transmissions from Command. _

_ “Captain Lorca.”  _ Admiral Terral’s face, his expression inscrutable as always, filled the screen.  _ “Your attendance is required on Starbase 27 for the upcoming Security Conference. I note that your response has not yet been received, and have therefore accepted the invitation on your behalf. I enclose the programme of events.” _

Gabriel groaned. He had hoped that, if he ignored Terral’s many and repeated missives for long enough, he would be able to avoid the conference and the two whole days of enforced networking and small talk that was certain to accompany it. 

Not to mention the focus of the series of lectures commencing at 14:30 on day one.

But it appeared as though the invitation was, in fact, an order.

Looked like a change of plans was on the cards.

_ 07:00 hours. Ready room. _

“Morning, Captain.”

“Morning, Number One.” He slumped into his chair. 

“Oh dear,” she remarked, noting his glum expression and passing him a coffee. “What’s up? Few extra seconds on your run time this morning, were there?”

“Looks like I’ll be away for a couple days,” Gabriel sighed, ignoring the jibe. “I've been _cordially_ _invited_ to hear a bunch of assholes half my age teach me about stuff I've been doing since they were knee-high to a Dakala bug.”

“Terral caught you, then?”

“How'd you guess?” asked Gabriel, bitterly.

“He'd been badgering me about that conference too. Wanted me to make sure you put it in your diary.”

“What did you say?”

Jones shrugged.

“Told him I wasn't your secretary, and that if you wanted to go, you'd have said so already.”

“I'm sure he loved that.”

“Hard to know, with him. But I don't think he was best pleased, no.” 

“Well, thank you for your valiant efforts,” said Gabriel, “but turns out they were in vain.”

Jones stole a glance at him as he began to rifle through the latest, exasperated, reports from Engineering. She knew  _ exactly  _ why he didn't want to go. He had never told her himself, of course - although he trusted her with his life, he had never been particularly forthcoming with details about it - but she'd seen his file, and had read enough around the subject that she knew all about what had happened. All about the Tarsus IV crisis and its terrible aftermath. 

She'd told Terral exactly what she'd thought of his insistence that the Captain attend the conference, for all the good it had done. But now, not knowing whether he knew that she knew, or even whether she was  _ supposed _ to know, she decided to say nothing about it until he did. Which he wouldn't, of course.

“There was a request from the Ops team,” said Jones, changing the subject. “They want to use one of the recreation rooms on deck 5 tonight.”

“Can't stop them,” muttered Gabriel, not really paying attention. He frowned, replaying Jones’s words in his head, and looked up. “Why do I get the feeling I might want to stop them?”

“It's for a … party.” Jones winced at the scowl that greeted this statement.

“No. Not after last time.”

“They got the carpet off the ceiling  _ eventually _ . And even Cardew admitted it was actually quite an impressive feat of--”

“I said no.”

“Oh, come on. Yes, there will probably be ill-advised snogging. Yes, Trephir will complain about the noise. Yes, people will be late for their shifts tomorrow.”

“You're not helping your case.”

“ _ But  _ it's just one night, it's a bit of fun  _ and _ it’ll be good for morale.” Jones paused, watching to see whether she had hit her mark.

Gabriel sagged.

“Any trouble -  _ any trouble at all  _ \- and I'll have the whole damn lot of them on report. Do I make myself clear?”

Jones grinned.

“Crystal, sir.” 

Gabriel's bad mood persisted as the day ticked by, and was not improved when he noticed members of the bridge team checking their chronometers repeatedly as their shift drew to a close, their impatience to be away palpable. 

He traipsed to the gym - which, he noted, was quieter than usual, a fact that struck him as being far from coincidental and only served to irritate him further - intending to expel his frustration with a workout. But, slogging unenthusiastically through a circuit on the gravity weight system, he realised his heart wasn't in it and found himself leaving, deflated, far earlier than he had planned.

The doors of the turbolift opened at deck 5, and Gabriel started towards his quarters. As he reached one of the many junctions in the corridor, the low thudding of music being played at levels that almost certainly contravened health and safety protocol 7.8.3 reached his ears. He shook his head. Doctor Trephir was going to have a field day.

He drove forward, determined to turn in for an early night, but only made it a few paces before he paused. The combination of Terral’s interference and Jones’s cajoling still rankling, he turned on his heel and headed instead in the direction of the music.

Time to remind everyone just who was Captain on this ship. 

_ 21:47. Recreation room 4. _

Ensign Tasini had hardly believed his luck when he had scored an invitation to the Ops team’s party. 

He stood slightly off to one side of the group of Security officers he had managed to infiltrate, clutching his whisky and cola tightly as the more experienced officers traded ever more wild stories about their time in Starfleet. Completely overawed by the occasion, he was grateful that the volume of the music restricted his role in the conversation to nodding at appropriate-looking moments 

“ _ What is going on here? _ ”

The music stopped abruptly, and heads turned towards the interruption. A quiet descended as the assembled partygoers realised what had happened.

“Oh,  _ shit, _ ” Ensign Tasini heard someone whisper.

The Captain stood in the doorway, and he did  _ not  _ look impressed.

“I gave permission for a party to be held here tonight,” he said. “But this is a disgrace.”

The crowd parted in front of him as he made his way to the middle of the room. He came to a halt in front of Ensign Tasini, shaking his head. 

_ This is it,  _ thought Tasini.  _ I’m going to be dishonourably discharged. Court martialed.  _

“As for you, Ensign. I had high hopes for you. Looks like I was wrong.”

The room held its collective breath. Tasini closed his eyes, waiting for the axe to fall.

Gabriel plucked the glass from Tasini’s unresisting hands.

“You never,  _ ever  _ mix good bourbon.”

The room erupted.

The music fired back up and, once he had been duly reassured that he wasn't in any trouble, Tasini was packed off with a fresh drink and received a hero's welcome from his new friends in Security. 

Gabriel smiled to himself and poured a drink, avoiding the more luridly-coloured beverages on offer. The bourbon, as he had suspected, was not particularly good, but he'd never been one to pass up the opportunity for a dramatic entrance.

“Didn't think I'd see  _ you _ here,” called a familiar voice from over his shoulder. He turned to see his First Officer, wearing civilian clothes and a very amused expression. 

“Jones! Good of you to show up.”

“I’m fashionably late,” she said, helping herself to a drink.

“ _ I _ was fashionably late. You're just late.”

“Speaking of fashion, we need to discuss the fact that you decided to wear your  _ uniform  _ to a  _ party _ ,” retorted Jones. 

Gabriel conceded the blow and Jones downed her drink with a flourish. Gabriel had a sudden flashback to a certain bad influence from his Academy days, currently stationed on the  _ Shenzhou.  _

“Spent most of my teens at the rugby club,” Jones said, catching the look on his face and shrugging, as if that explained everything. Pouring another drink, she added, “So, what  _ are _ you doing here?”

“Came to show these upstarts how it's done.” He grinned at Jones’s incredulous expression and raised his glass.

“Watch and learn, Jones.”

The rest of the evening seemed to pass in a series of flashes.

The leader of Beta team had turned up, fully intending to complain about the racket before realising that the Captain - embroiled in a highly competitive game of beer pong - was the cause of most of it and beating a hasty retreat.

Commander Jones had led them all in a rugby song so eye-wateringly rude that Tasini had turned bright pink. 

At some point, someone had decided to find out whether it was possible to replicate glitter. 

Apparently, it was.

_ 01:23. _

“Right, that's me done,” Jones said at last, setting down her glass. She looked across at the Captain, who looked rather the worse for wear after the latest round of shots, the provenance of which no-one was quite sure. “Might I suggest, sir, that you begin to consider the possibility of thinking about perhaps calling it a night at some point in the not-too-distant future?”

“Leave, before the end of the party?” cried Gabriel. “Never! The Captain always goes down with their ship!” 

That earned him a cheer and yet another drink. 

“Well, there's nothing in that adage about the First Officer,” said Jones. “So I'll be off.”

_ 02:18.  _

The detritus of the party covered every surface of Recreation Room 4. In one corner, Tasini was snoring, curled up on the floor under a table.

Gabriel Lorca, captain of the USS  _ Buran _ , beer pong champion and last man standing - last man wobbling, anyway - removed his flower garland and finally made his way back to his quarters. 

*

_ 05:00 hours. Wake. Immediately regret decision. _

“Computer, postpone alarm.”

“ _ Alarm postponed for five minutes _ .”

_ 05:05. _

“Computer, postpone alarm.”

“ _ Alarm postponed for five minutes _ .”

_ 05:10.  _

“Computer, postpone alarm until 06:00.”

“ _ Alarm postponed. Re-calibrating run route _ .”

“Don't get your hopes up, Computer.”

“ _ Command not recognised _ .”

_ 06:00 hours. Wake. Curse everything. _

_ 06:10. Shower. Shave. Carefully. _

_ 06:25. Uniform. Curse fiddly zips. _

_ 06:30. Breakfast.  _

_ 06:35. Throw up breakfast. _

_ 06:45. Review overnight transmissions from Command. _

_ 06:55. Give up trying to review overnight transmissions from Command.  _

_ 07:03 hours. Ready room. _

“I was about to send a search party,” Jones deadpanned, nodding to the chronometer. 

“Ngggh.” Gabriel lowered himself into a seat, gingerly. He pulled his coffee towards him, considered it for a moment, then pushed it away as his stomach performed another somersault. “What’ve we got?”

Jones, who looked annoyingly chipper as far as Gabriel was concerned, consulted her PADD.

“Half of Ops have called in sick, for some reason.”

“Put them all in the brig for dereliction of duty.”

“I’ve recommended bed rest and plenty of hydration instead. I’ve reassigned teams to cover their work today, and they’ll be on double-shifts tomorrow.”

“Hmmph.”

“Deck 8 has been covered in glitter.”

“Never liked the paint job down there anyway.”

“Trephir lodged no fewer than five complaints about noise last night.”

“I didn’t hear anything unusual, did you, Number One?”

“Nothing of note, sir.”

“As I thought.” 

Gabriel placed his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead on his hands, wondering whether it was normal for hair to hurt. 

“And the Captain has a hangover,” finished Jones.

“I’ll have you court-martialed for gross insubordination,” he said, without looking up. “The Captain does  _ not  _ have a hangover. Why would the Captain have a hangover?”

“No reason I can think of, sir.”

“Correct answer.”

_ 08:00 hours. Bridge.  _

“Captain on the bridge!”

Delta team began to hand over the morning's work, while Gabriel sank gratefully into his chair. He exchanged a knowing glance with Ensign Tasini who, he was pleased to note, at least had the decency to look as unwell as Gabriel felt.

Their course set, Gabriel noted the usual slight tremor which Lieutenant Cardew staunchly denied existed but nevertheless always preceded the warp drive powering up. He winced as the display on the view screen began to move at uncomfortable speeds and prayed that there was no more of his breakfast left to put in an appearance.

“Oh, sir?” Jones called from her workstation. “That report you needed is ready.”

“Report?” said Gabriel, hoping no-one had noticed how tightly he was gripping the arms of his chair. “I didn't ask for a report.”

“I was anticipating your orders, sir. It's about the  _ very important matter _ we discussed earlier. It's  _ in your ready room _ .”

Realisation, apparently following the principle of ‘better late than never’, dawned on Gabriel.

“Oh. Yes. The report. Thank you, Jones. I’ll, go and, uh, review that now.”

He stood up, none too certainly, and left the bridge with as much dignity as he could muster. Jones watched his progress with a passable impression of a straight face. 

“The bridge is yours, Number One. For at least the next three hours. This report is going to require my  _ full _ attention.”

Safely in his ready room, doors set to privacy, Gabriel snored his way through the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

_05:00 hours. Wake._

_05:02. Dress._

_05:05. Commence run._

“Morning, Ensign!”

“Morning, sir!”

_06:05. Return to Captain's quarters._

_06:06. Rehydrate._

_06:08. Shower. Shave._

_06:25. Uniform._

_06:30. Breakfast. More successful than yesterday's._

_06:45. Review overnight transmissions from Command. And unread transmissions that fell victim to the previous day._

_07:00 hours. Ready room._

“He's alive!” joked Jones, as he entered.

“Haha,” said Gabriel, mirthlessly.

“Don't worry, I don't think anyone noticed. Apart from Hazell. And Tasini. And Xhao. And--"

“ _Thank_ you, Number One.” Gabriel took a fortifying gulp of coffee.

Jones grinned.

_08:00 hours. Bridge._

“Captain on the bridge!”

Gabriel ensured that Alpha team were setted into the morning’s work before signalling to Jones that she should take over.

“Something I need to do,” he muttered to her.

Gabriel made his way past the mess hall, pausing briefly at the patch of wall next to the rotas, where the crew stuck the best of the slips from the various fortune cookies he had given them that week. They ranged from the vaguely inspirational:

_There is little to learn from success, but much to learn from failure._

To the ridiculous:

_Be the kumquat you wish to see in the world._

And, his personal favourite:

_ >>> REPLICATOR ERROR CODE 406 <<< _

He smiled to himself, before remembering his crucial mission.

Gabriel entered the gym just in time to witness his Chief of Security send Ensign Tasini flying over her shoulder.

“... And that's _exactly_ what I was talking about,” Commander Landry concluded, standing over him, hands on hips.

“Understood, Commander,” Tasini managed from his new vantage point on the floor.

Gabriel cleared his throat. Landry looked up.

“That's enough for today. Get yourself cleaned up and report to the bridge,” she said, holding out a hand to Tasini and pulling him to his feet.

“Yes, Commander.” Tasini shuffled off sheepishly, his pride not so much bruised as entirely AWOL.

Gabriel grinned, approaching Landry as she removed her sparring gloves.

“Nice move,” he said, innocently. “Where'd you learn that?”

“Some asshole on the _Hawking_. Can't remember his name,” Landry deadpanned. “Don't imagine he amounted to much after that. Probably the pinnacle of his career.”

“You're probably right.”

Gabriel liked Landry, for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. They’d been through a lot together on the _Hawking,_ and when he’d found himself in need of a Chief of Security for the _Buran_ he’d had no need to think twice. She was smart, brave and, despite appearances, loyal to a fault. Exactly what the _Buran_ needed. In truth, though, she’d never quite forgiven him for promoting Jones to First Officer over her. Gabriel had no regrets about his decision - Landry was in many ways an exceptional officer, but more likely to instill mild terror in her colleagues than to encourage and guide. But the dent it had set in their friendship was something he had failed to anticipate and, thus far, had failed to repair.

He nodded in the direction in which Tasini had just exited.

“How's he getting on?”

“He's improving,” Landry replied, grudgingly. “Slowly.” Gabriel smiled.

“You know, I remember another asshole on the _Hawking._ Took a while to improve her sparring technique. Can't recall her name, but I'm sure she's doing pretty well for herself now.”

“Hmm.” Landry looked unconvinced. “To what do I owe the pleasure, anyway?”

Gabriel did his best to look nonchalant.

“Want to go to a conference?”

Landry _could_ have looked less impressed, but not by much.

“You mean the one Terral strong-armed you into?”

Damn. Bad news travelled fast.

“It's going to be, uh, ‘ _highly informative and illustrated by practical examples_ ’.”

“You must be looking forward to it, then.”

“Thought it might be of interest to you. You could make some useful contacts. Meet some new assholes. Could be a great opportunity.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thought not.”

Gabriel trudged back to his ready room, resigned to his fate.

_11:23. Ready room._

“ _Jones to Captain Lorca_.”

“Go ahead.”

“ _Incoming communication from Admiral Cornwell, sir._ ”

Unexpected.

“Patch her through.”

He took a moment to straighten his jacket before accepting the transmission and immediately felt ridiculous for doing so. The Admiral’s holographic form flickered into view.

“ _Captain Lorca.”_

“Admiral. If I'd known you were going to drop in, I'd have rolled out the red carpet.”

“ _I was hoping for a marching band, at least._ ”

“If it's music you want, I could always get Jones to serenade you,” Gabriel replied, jerking a thumb in the general direction of the bridge. “Turns out she knows some _very_ interesting songs.”

“ _I'm not sure I should ask_ ,” said Admiral Cornwell, raising an eyebrow.

“Wouldn't tell you even if you did. What happens on the _Buran_ , stays on the _Buran_.”

She laughed and, for just a moment, he was with _Kat,_ nearly half a lifetime ago, back before ranks and orders and protocols. Back before everything got so complicated.

“Good to see you, Gabriel.”

“And you, Kat.”

She considered him for a moment, head tilted slightly.

“ _Have you asked Jones yet?_ ”

Gabriel exhaled wearily.

“Not yet.”

“ _Well, don’t leave it too long. Angus retires in November. There’s a chair on the_ Saruhashi _with her name on it, if she wants it.”_

“I will. Just ... haven’t found the right moment.” He decided to play his one remaining card. “What about Pip’s girl? What's her name - Brennan? She must be due a promotion by now. Hate to step on anyone's toes.”

“ _Burnham? Don't worry about her. There are plans afoot for her too. And, I might add,_ Captain Georgiou _has been considerably more cooperative than you,” said Katrina.  “You don't get away with it that easily, Gabriel_.”

“Apparently not.”

Katrina smiled sadly.

_“I know you're going to miss her.”_

Gabriel shrugged.

“Damn inconvenient, that's all.”

“ _Right. This is all just so you can avoid disruption to your routine._ ”

“She's got to fly the nest some time.”

“Well, _you know what you have to do, then._ ”

Gabriel nodded glumly, knowing he’d been defeated.

“So. What else?” he asked, keen to change the subject.

“ _What makes you think there's anything else?_ ”

“We didn't need a face-to-face about my impending recruitment issues. Come on, Kat. What else?”

Katrina pursed her lips, looking mildly annoyed that he'd found her out. Gabriel smirked. Out-psyching the psychiatrist. It was a small victory, but he’d take it.

“ _I was a little … surprised to see your name on the attendance list for the conference tomorrow,_ ” Katrina said, carefully.

“Terral left me with the impression that my being there was more or less compulsory.”

“ _I was referring to the … subject matter of some of the presentations,_ ” she said, watching him closely.

Gabriel sighed.

“‘ _10 Years On: Learning from Tarsus IV’_ , you mean? I'm not exactly thrilled about it either.”

“ _I could have a quiet word with Terral, if you like, explain--”_

“It's fine. I'm fine.”

She looked at him, eyes brimming with concern, and he knew _exactly_ what she was remembering.

When Gabriel had got back from Tarsus IV, he had been consumed by a rage that burned like a fire in his gut and hummed constantly in his ears. It was as though his brain, and his fists, were on a hair-trigger, and, after pulling Gabriel out of the third fight he'd started in as many days, his commanding officer had gently but very firmly steered him towards therapy. Gabriel had requested Katrina - Doctor Cornwell, as she'd been then, before the call of Command had proved too tempting - as his psychiatrist, knowing full well that it was unprofessional, unethical, perhaps, given the already blurred lines of their relationship. But she'd agreed to it, because she understood that if she refused to listen, he was unlikely to ever talk to anyone.

Even though Philippa had warned Katrina to expect the worst, she'd been shocked when she first saw him. He'd been barely recognisable as the man she remembered, barely recognisable to himself, even; paranoid, full of fury and bile, wild and unreasonable. She'd spent months helping him unpack the anger and the anguish and the _guilt_ he carried - what if he’d told Balayna not to go, what if he’d gone with her, what if they _hadn’t been late_ \- and helped him to understand what he felt, despite his own attempts to sabotage her work through lack of cooperation. She’d rebuilt him almost from the ground up, piece by piece, equipping him with the tools required to start again, over and over, every day.

Looking back now, with the hindsight of almost ten years, the truth seemed very simple to Gabriel.

She had saved his life.

“I know what I'm letting myself in for.”

“ _10 years. It's an important anniversary. It may be more difficult than you think.”_

“So was last year. And the year before that. They're all difficult.” He rubbed his brow. “But I think … I think it’s important I go. Make sure they’re remembered properly. Make sure the lessons are learned. I owe them that. Owe her that.”

 _Balayna_.

When Gabriel had finally brought himself to pack up the trinkets and memories of Balayna, ready to place into storage before his next assignment, they hadn't even filled the single, small box he had selected for the task. They had been together for just a few months, barely any time at all. It had stung to see it like that, the tiny ghost of their relationship; artefacts to be itemised and archived, the empty space left over just another reminder of what might have been. Another reminder that so much of what he mourned was little more than a fantasy.

It had hurt, but once he had come to understand that, and learned how to separate _Balayna_ from the dream she had represented, it had become possible to say goodbye to her. Now, although time had done little to soothe the injustice of her death - her _murder_ \- he was able to remember her in the way she deserved, rather than hold her responsible for his happiness or, worse, use her to excuse his own unhealthy behaviour. Free of the impossible weight of his idolisation, her memory had become something to treasure.

“I’m going,” he said, finally.

Katrina relented, having learned long ago that there was very little point in trying to dissuade him from a course of action once he had set his mind to it.

“ _Just … be careful. Go easy on yourself._ ”

“I know the drill. Learned it from the best.”

She nodded, smiling ruefully.

“ _Very well. Captain_.”

“Admiral.”

_21:00 hours. Ready room._

Gabriel drummed his fingers on the edge of the programme of events.

_‘14:30 - 10 Years On: Learning from Tarsus IV’_

He could teach them a few things _he'd_ learned from Tarsus IV. That some people would turn a blind eye to almost anything if it meant a chance to save their own skin. That ordinary people were capable of extraordinary evil.

That sometimes the difference between hate and love rested on a single choice.

“Everything alright, sir?”

Gabriel looked up. Jones was watching him from across the desk, concerned. He realised that his coffee was long cold.

“Fine, thank you, Number One.”

Jones was far from convinced, but knew better than to press the subject.

They had been poring over reports and briefings for hours, while Jones attempted to get up to speed in advance of her Captain’s impending absence, and there was still more to go.

She rubbed her brow wearily.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said, setting aside what felt like the thousandth report from Engineering. “Keep all this in your head at the same time, I mean.”

“I don’t,” replied Gabriel. “I let my crew keep it in _their_ heads. My job is to annoy them until they get things done. That's delegation.”

“That is a truly profound lesson in leadership,” said Jones sarcastically.

“Stick around, I've got plenty.”

Jones buried her head in her hands.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s two days. It's not the first time you've been in charge. You’ll be fine.” Gabriel flipped through an interminable diagnostic report explaining in surprisingly dry terms why replicator 7 was causing everything to taste like bananas, expect for bananas, which tasted like chicken. “Besides, it’s good for you. About time you started thinking about assuming command.”

“Haha,” intoned Jones. “Two hundred years from now, they’ll sweep your bones off of that chair and you’ll _still_ make a fuss about it.”

“I don’t mean the _Buran,_ ” Gabriel laughed. “You can prise her out of my cold, dead hands. I mean your own ship. Your own crew.”  

Jones shrugged noncommittally.

“What?” said Gabriel, trying to read her expression. “You telling me you’ve never thought about it?”

“Of course I have. It’s … a way off yet, that’s all.”

“Five years this September,” Gabriel said, recalling the day he had welcomed her aboard.

“Blimey. Is there a medal for putting up with you for that long?”

“And, what, two years as First Officer on the _Yeager_ before that?” continued Gabriel, ignoring the jibe. “Come on. You can't be _that_ far off.”

He decided to bite the bullet.

“There's a captaincy up for grabs. The _Saruhashi_. I think you should go for it. I'd be very happy to recommend you. Be proud to.”

Jones busied herself with a briefing from Ops.

“Don’t think I’d be much use at it,” she muttered.

Gabriel frowned.

“What’re you talking about?”

“I just … I don't think I’ll make a good Captain. Never have. That's all.”

“Even with all my profound lessons?”

“Even with. Especially with.”

Jones sighed.

“You make it look easy, but actually it's … it's all this, isn't it?” She gestured at the heap of reports, which seemed to grow every time she looked at it. “All this balancing stuff and remembering everything and worrying about why soup taste like bananas.”

“I'm not worried about bananas. I order _other_ people to worry about bananas. I told you. Delegation.”

“But you do, don’t you? Worry. I’ve seen it. You worry about everything. Alright, maybe not the bananas, but - everything else. Everyone. And it’s constant, isn’t it, that worry? All the time.”

“Clearly need to work on my poker face.”

“I don’t even know where to _start_ with all of this. And you’re expected to know the answer to everything. Even what to do about the bananas.”

Gabriel set his PADD aside and folded his hands on the desk, considering her for a moment.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he said, as though he had just made up his mind. “I don’t think I’ll ever make a good Captain either.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Jones sighed, rubbing the back of her neck wearily, not in the mood for sarcasm.

“I’m not. I really don’t.” Gabriel shrugged at her flummoxed expression, surprised himself by the turn the conversation had taken. “Been doing this nearly five years, and I’m not sure I know what that looks like. A good Captain. Don't even know if it's possible. For anyone. What I do - what I _try_ to do - is be a _better_ Captain. Every day. A bit better. Whatever that means. Don't always manage it, but I always try. Just have to hope that's enough.”

Jones blinked. Gabriel smiled at her.

“Don't worry about good. Worry about _better_ ,” he said. “And I _know,_ whenever you decide the time's right, you'll make a better Captain.”

Jones chewed her lip, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to embarrass her.

“Never knew you were such a softie,” she managed.

“Voice that opinion to another living soul and I'll bust you back down to lieutenant so fast your head’ll spin,” replied Gabriel, returning to his report. “That kind of talk could bring down the whole ship.”

Jones smiled, in spite of the stack of reading she still had to get through.

“Your terrible secret is safe with me, sir.”

*

_05:00 hours. Wake._

_05:02. Dress._

_05:05. Commence run._

Gabriel found himself wrong-footed as he slowed down on his approach to the door to deck 2, only to realise that it had finally been fixed.

Well. What do you know.

Ensign Tasini was nowhere to be seen in the corridor beyond. Slacking again, just as he was starting to improve. Shame.

_06:05. Return to Captain's quarters._

_06:06. Rehydrate._

_06:08. Shower. Shave._

_06:25. Uniform._

_06:30. Breakfast._

Everything tasted of bananas. The problem was clearly spreading.

Gabriel sighed and logged yet another repair request with Engineering.

_06:45. Forward overnight transmissions from Command to Jones._

Gabriel paused in front of his screen, feeling slightly adrift at finding himself ahead of schedule.

Automatically, he reached to check that it was there. It was, of course. It always was. In the inside pocket of his jacket, closest to his heart. A small slip of paper, slightly faded now after ten years, but still perfectly legible. Reminding him why he always needed to try to be better, every day.

_Hate is never conquered by hate. Hate is conquered by love._

Gabriel was momentarily caught off-guard by a constricting in his chest and the hot, unfamiliar prickle of tears in his eyes. He shook his head, willing them away, swallowing hard to suppress the lump in his throat.

He straightened up. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Finally, his composure restored, he scooped up his overnight bag and readied himself to leave.

“Computer, cancel tomorrow's alarm.”

“ _Alarm cancelled_.”

He'd take the scenic route up to deck 1.

_07:00 hours. Ready room._

“Ready, Acting Captain Jones?”

Jones blew out her cheeks.

“As I'll ever be.”

“Two days. That's all. Then back to normal. Unless you realise you don't want to go back to normal, of course.”

“We'll see.”

Gabriel picked up the square, wooden bowl of fortune cookies which resided on his desk. Its near-mythical properties were hotly debated by the crew, though mostly the discussion seemed to turn on how it never seemed to run out, no matter how many cookies were consumed on the ship.

Although it was the cheapest of junk sold to tourists, the bowl held a sentimental value to Gabriel, the depth of which he had only admitted to himself after becoming irrationally upset at chipping a corner of it one day. It had belonged to Balayna, and she had used it to hold the slips from the cookies he had given to her. She had always enjoyed the simple charm of the cookies, and, to his great surprise, it had transpired that others did too.

As for the bowl’s magical capabilities, the truth was rather more prosaic: he had his own replicator in his ready room.

He held it out to Jones, who accepted, alighting on the first cookie her hand reached. Gabriel, as always, made a show of deliberating over which to choose, even though he placed absolutely no importance on the outcome, before selecting one for himself.

Jones snapped hers in two.

“‘ _An old friend will surprise you this week’,_ ” she read, unimpressed, screwing the little paper slip up into a tiny ball and skimming it onto the desk. “Hope not. I hate surprises.”

Gabriel, meanwhile, had opened his own cookie.

“Oh,” he said, looking mildly disappointed.

“What?”

“Nothing in it.” He threw the pieces of the empty cookie into his mouth with a shrug.  

“Probably a terrible portent of doom, that,” laughed Jones.

“Or just a metaphor for this damn conference.”

“Same thing in your case, isn't it?”

_08:00 hours. Bridge._

“Captain on the bridge!”

“Don't look at me,” said Gabriel, addressing the overlapping teams. “Acting Captain Jones here will be your benevolent dictator for the next couple days. I will return at 20:00 hours tomorrow. Don't miss me too much in the meantime.”

He shook Jones’s hand.

“Think about what I said,” he said, quietly. She nodded.

“I will.”

Gabriel straightened up.

“Good luck, Acting Captain. Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on timelines ... I've tried to stick to that indicated in _Drastic Measures_ , with the one exception that Gabriel and Philippa met at the Academy, not during the events on Tarsus IV. I will die on that hill.
> 
> Ted Sullivan mentioned/hypothesised that Landry had also served on the _Buran_ during an episode of _After Trek_ , and I haven't been able to shake the idea since. I think there's a whole other story still to be told about her...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter contains a brief, non-graphic reference to a relationship where consent has been made impossible due to the identity of one of the parties being withheld from the other.

_21:03. Bridge._

Angharad drummed her fingers against the arm of the Captain's chair. It was irrational, she knew, to be so worried about so small a delay. It was only an hour, after all.

There was no reason to be worried. Except for that storm.

The ion storm that had been brewing for most of the evening had moved far more swiftly than they had anticipated, the clouds angry and crackling. Conditions had deteriorated rapidly, preventing them from docking and necessitating the retreat of the _Buran_ to a safe distance. Even so, scanners and communications were badly hindered by interference, frustrating their attempts at making contact with Captain Lorca or, indeed, anyone else.

Angharad berated herself inwardly. They hadn’t been late for the rendezvous at Starbase 27, not _technically_ . But if they'd been slightly more on time, as she had genuinely intended to be until the _tiny fire_ in Engineering that they'd all agreed was best to omit from their daily report, they would likely have beaten the storm and docked without issue. She could well imagine what the Captain would say when he got back. There would be one of his famous lectures about forward planning. He'd never let her live it down.

“Anything?” she asked. Xhao, who had been alternating messages between the Captain and Central Comms on Starbase 27 for the best part of forty-five minutes, shook her head.

“Just static. The storm's still disrupting all channels.”

Angharad glanced again at the view screen, chewing distractedly at a fingernail.

“Keep trying.”

The minutes ticked by. Angharad sat, her left heel bouncing up and down, betraying her impatience.

“Commander? I've got something,” called Xhao.

_At last._

_“... ayzzzzzzzcchh … daytssssssssssh … SS … czzzzzzccchk … ardmensssssccck…”_

The audio was faint and broken, but it was unmistakably the Captain.

Angharad stood, as though that might help her hear it better.

“Can you clean up the signal?”

“This _is_ the cleaned up signal!”

_“... quessssssssssch … vailabrrrrrrrrr--"_

The transmission cut out abruptly. Angharad turned sharply to Xhao, feeling a knot of panic tighten in her stomach.

“What happened?”

“I - I’m not sure--”

“Did you get a lock on his location?”

“No, you don't understand, it's _gone,_ totally gone,” Xhao replied, scouring the data on her display screen, baffled. “There's no record of it. It's like it was never there at all.”

“That's not possible,” said Angharad. “Is it?”

Xhao looked pensive.

“Probably just a phonic echo,” she suggested, but the tone of her voice indicated that she was less than convinced herself.

Angharad shook her head.

“It was Captain Lorca. I'm sure of it.”

There was a nervous pause.

“So what do we do now?”

Angharad sat, uncertain.

“Nothing we can do until that storm lifts,” she said eventually. “We'll just have to keep trying.”

 _Great leadership,_ she thought bitterly to herself. _Let's all just sit here and twiddle our thumbs a bit longer. Brilliant._

“ _Transporter Room to Commander Jones.”_

“Go ahead.”

“ _Captain's back. He's on his way to the bridge now._ ”

Angharad heaved a sigh of relief. She had never been happier to hear such an anticlimactic statement.

“Alright, everyone,” she announced to the rest of the bridge crew. “Normal service will be resumed shortly, you'll be pleased to hear.”

She stood, only too glad to relinquish the chair and the stress that had come along with it. Rather sooner than she'd expected, the doors to the bridge slid open and Captain Lorca burst through them. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Angharad.

“You?” he rasped.

“Nice to see you too, sir. What time do you call this?” Angharad, almost giddy with relief, nodded to the chronometer with a grin.

“What happened?”

“Apart from some _really_ spooky transmissions? Not much. But what are you _wearing_?” Angharad laughed, taking in the long leather coat the Captain was sporting. “Midlife crisis catch you unawares?”

“What _happened_?” Lorca snarled, wheeling around. “Where is it?”

“I - what do you mean?” Angharad, caught off-guard, found herself backing away from him.

“There was a … distress signal,” the Captain panted, his eyes darting around the bridge.

“Look, I was worried, but I wasn't about to go to red alert just because you were a bit late--”

Lorca pushed past her and hurried across to the display panel at her workstation, examining it frantically.

“Is - is everything alright, sir?” Angharad asked, her concern growing. She could feel the eyes of the rest of the team watching, all as confused as she was.

Lorca’s face was so close to the screen he was practically touching it. He squinted as the screen burst painfully into colour. Unfamiliar symbols flashed in front of his eyes.

He felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Captain?”

“I'm fine.” He gripped the edge of the console, still facing away from her.

“Probably just that storm, sir,” Angharad offered. “It's been playing havoc with comms all evening - you should have heard the stuff _we_ received. Good thing you weren't caught up in it, could have turned nasty.”

The Captain looked up.

“The storm. Right.”

“Are … are you sure you're OK, sir?” Angharad asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Fine. Just a little … transporter-sickness.”

“I could get Doctor Trephir to--"

“No. No doctors.” He cast one last look around the bridge before turning abruptly to leave. “Carry on.”

Angharad watched him go, baffled.

“Aye, sir.”

*

Looking back, Angharad realised, she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when she knew something was wrong. It was a creeping sort of feeling, like a nagging doubt, or perhaps more like a bad dream, the memory of which became more blurred the harder she tried to grasp it.

But, if pressed, she would have said that it had started with a headache.

_Captain Lorca winced and reflexively raised his hand to shield his eyes as he entered his ready room._

_“Sorry,” Angharad said, moving swiftly to adjust the settings on the lights. The Captain had confined himself to quarters for several days during the previous week, unwell. Typically, he had defied all summons to sick bay. Doctor Trephir, who had once had to administer the Captain with twice the recommended amount of sedative before he was able to get him to stay still for long enough to fix four broken ribs and what turned out to be a serious head trauma, was no stranger to this stubborn behaviour. Fortunately for all of them, the Andorian had chosen not to see it as an affront to his profession. “You've not still got that headache, have you?”_

_“I'm fine.”_

_“It's been days now. You really should let the Doc take a look--"_

_“I don't need a doctor.”_

_“Look, there's a time and a place for the tough guy act,” said Angharad, exasperated. “What sort of example does it set to the crew if the Captain won't go to sick bay when--"_

_“I said_ no _,” he snapped._

_Angharad sighed. There was never any point in arguing with him when he was in this sort of mood._

_“Right you are, sir.”_

_She pretended not to notice when he reprogrammed the lights’ default setting to a dimmer glow._

Some of the moments had seemed so inconsequential that she had paid little attention to them at first. They were blips, anomalous results in the data that could be safely discarded.

_“Fine. Send an away team. You, Kean and Landry.”_

_Angharad looked up, puzzled._

_“Who?” she asked._

_Captain Lorca paused._

_“The kid,” he said, as if she had asked an incredibly stupid question._

_“Ensign Tasini?” Angharad tried._

_“Yeah. Tasini. The keen kid. That's what I said. Why are you still here? Go.” The Captain waved a hand dismissively._

_She pretended not to notice when she glanced back and saw him bring the crew manifest up on his screen._

But as the anomalies became more and more frequent, the data made less and less sense. In some intangible, indefinable way, things were just … wrong. And whatever it was, the Wrong was spreading like a cancer. Even the _Buran_ herself was sick, it seemed. Engineering could barely keep up with the demands that poured in shipwide, day after day.

Whenever she tried to put it into words, in her calls back home, to her crewmates, to herself even, the very act of voicing it made her realise how ridiculous it all sounded. The Captain had always been a grumpy bastard. Duct tape and prayer had kept the _Buran_ sailing for years. It was nothing new. There was no point in worrying everyone.

She wondered whether she was making the whole thing up. Or worse, whether she was the one going wrong.

_“Hey!”_

_Angharad turned to see Graav barrelling towards her, his expression angry even by Tellarite standards._

_“Why have I been removed from bridge duty?” he demanded._

_“What? You haven't been--"_

_“No? Because the rota says otherwise,” he snapped, shoving a PADD towards her. “See for yourself.”_

_Angharad frowned._

_“I don't understand,” she muttered, checking and double checking the information displayed. “I drew up that rota myself--"_

_“So it's your fault.”_

_Angharad gestured helplessly at the PADD._

_“I - I can't explain it. I must have made a mistake. I'm sorry. I’ll get it fixed for next week--”_

_But Graav simply snorted and stormed off._

_She pretended not to notice the filthy looks he shot her whenever they passed each other in the corridor._

But still, the thought lingered in her mind, somewhere between a suspicion and a hunch. That, while the routine was the same, somewhere along the way the rhythm had changed.

_“Sir? We should be arriving shortly,” said Hazell, looking up from his station. Captain Lorca, who had sat in bad-tempered silence for much of the morning, frowned._

_“Arriving where?” he asked._

_“The coordinates are on your screen now, Captain. It should offer an excellent view of the white dwarf.”_

_“You planning on a little sightseeing, Hazell?” he sneered._

_“Er - no, sir--" Hazell began, realising too late that he had entirely misjudged his attempt to lighten the Captain's mood._

_“Anyone else want to do some sightseeing?” said the Captain sarcastically. “Anyone?”_

_There was an uncomfortable pause on the bridge as the crew busied themselves with their screens, unwilling to give him an excuse to single them out for a further tirade._

_“I just thought--” Hazell tried again._

_“I don't need you to think. I need you to do your job. Stop wasting my time.”_

_Hazell looked across at Angharad, who could only shrug, as confused as he was._

_She pretended not to notice how the Captain looked at the stars on the view screen. Like he wanted to burn every single one of them out of the sky._

*

It was a strange thing, wearing your own face as a mask.

His predecessor had kept records of everything - interminably dull for the most part, but invaluable in their detail. From these, he had been able to piece together the minutiae of this other life.

And so, every morning, he assembled the constituent parts of Captain Gabriel Lorca, USS _Buran_. Clean shave. Uniform. Boots. Badge. Spit polish. Straight back. Stiff shoulders. Emerged from quarters that were familiar and yet alien, into the light that stabbed like needles in his eyes. On to the bridge of a ship he knew, but with a crew whose ranks were jumbled up, with faces newly resurrected from the dead.

He had heard the stories, of course. They all had. The USS _Defiant_ , thrown across time and space from a parallel universe. If he hadn’t seen the files, he would have dismissed it as legend. Now, here he stood, transposed into the stuff of legend himself, incontrovertible proof of the existence of other worlds. And he had achieved what the crew of the _Defiant_ had failed to do. He had _survived_.

The other him wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Empire. How pathetic _this_ Lorca must have been, to be content with so ignominious a command. Declawed, reduced to bending to Starfleet’s every whim in a ship barely fit for scrap, with a crew who paid him so little respect that it was a wonder none of them had made a move to forcibly take his post. They called him Captain, sure enough, but the way they addressed him, as though they were _equals_ , made his fists twitch.

On the ISS _Buran_ , his own crew had fallen over each other to win his favour. Killed each other, if necessary. He had demanded total respect and, where it was found lacking, punishment had been swift.

Well. Perhaps he was shackled by the insipid rules of this place, but he was damned if he was going to be laughed at by his own subordinates. Things were going to change. Already were changing. There would be respect.

And he would start at the top.

It had been certainly been a shock to see Jones when he had stepped onto that bridge, though in the end it had proved to be far from the strangest thing that had happened to him that day. The last time he'd seen her, three months previously, she had tried to murder him in his own bed, stabbed him as he slept. Hardly a fair trade for the evening he'd shown her. He had returned the favour, naturally, but had ensured that _his_ blade struck home.

Here, she was … boring. Wife and stepson in some backwater on Earth, with no strategic value to their alliance that he had been able to ascertain. A ramshackle career lacking in any real ambition, which had progressed seemingly by accident, so rudderless were her decisions until, finally, she had settled - _settled_ being the operative word, just like her captain, like all of the crew on this no-hope, tin-pot joke of a vessel - as First Officer on the _Buran_. And now, apparently baffled by the opportunity of her own command practically being thrown at her by Starfleet, she was showing no signs of leaving any time soon.

If Jones wouldn't go of her own volition, he would have to muzzle her until he could find some other way to remove her from the ship without raising suspicion. She was dangerous, in her own way. She saw too much. Questioned everything. And people listened to her, for some reason. It was only a matter of time until she became too much of a risk.

Then, there was Landry. If she wasn't so thoroughly indoctrinated in Federation propaganda, this Landry wouldn't have been out of place back home. There, she had been content for him to lead and to bask in glory by association, but _here_ , she was so ambitious that he couldn’t be sure she wouldn't sell him out at the first chance of something better. He liked that.

He had been pleased to discover that she was as skilled out of her uniform as her counterpart had been. Then again, he had to admit to a slight miscalculation there. He hadn't misread the signals - far from it as it turned out, judging by the way she'd taken to their new arrangement - but after the first time, she had asked what had changed, why now, after all those years, and he had been forced to improvise some suitably bland platitudes. It transpired, so far as he could work out, that _this_ Lorca had never so much as laid a finger on her, or any of his crew for that matter. Idiot. Denying himself the best perk of the job.

For now at least, Landry was on side. But she was no fool, and she knew his predecessor of old. He would have to tread carefully with her too, he knew.

He couldn't allow them to find out. Any of them. As toothless as this Federation appeared, he didn't doubt for one minute how they would react if they learned the truth. He would be made to disappear. It would be only too easy, in a bureaucracy as labyrinthine as Starfleet. He would become a specimen for investigation. Labs, tests, interrogations. He couldn't blame them. It was exactly what he would do, were the tables turned. It was what they had done with the wreckage of the _Defiant._

No. He had already tamed physics. Now, he just needed _time._ Time to formulate a plan, to work out how get back home and finish what he had started. What _they_ had started.

There would be vengeance. In time.

But, until then, there was the mask.


	4. Chapter 4

_ USS  _ BURAN _ : MARCH 2256 _

 

_ 10:17. First Officer's Quarters. _

Angharad yawned, scrolling through a memo from Starfleet while she picked at her breakfast. 

The new Crossfield-class ships were almost ready for commission, apparently, packed to the nacelles with the very cutting edge of technology. Angharad thought about the  _ Buran _ , whose systems seemed to be increasingly held together by little more than the sheer force of Cardew’s bloody-mindedness, and felt a pang of jealousy towards the crews of the two new, as-yet unnamed, vessels. She lost the thread of things towards the end - something to do with mushrooms? She was clearly misunderstanding something - and gave up, resolving to read it again properly once she had got a decent night's sleep.

Her shift patterns had become increasingly erratic over the past month or so. Late nights were followed by early mornings, and the minimal respite offered by the few afternoon shifts granted her, like today's, was frequently stolen by orders to deal with apparently critical issues that extended her working day well into the night. Sleep hit at all the wrong times; she found herself nodding off on the bridge but wide awake when she finally crawled into bed. It was like living in a state of permanent jet-lag. 

She had confronted Captain Lorca about it, after yet another rota she had drawn up had come back with amendments that had made her wince, but he had been unsympathetic - there was nothing he could do, he said, which she supposed was true, as far as it went. They had been struck by a rash of transfer requests and resignations, and the remaining crew were stretched thin while they waited for new recruits to arrive. Tempers were fraying. 

As the person responsible for the rotas, she was practically  _ persona non grata  _ in the mess hall. As if it wasn't a struggle just to find the least-worst option possible. As if she wasn't doing her best to prevent Captain Lorca from making ever more punitive changes to the draft rotas she presented him with. As if she wasn't being stretched more thinly than everyone else. 

And it was starting to impact on her in ways that hurt far more than the lack of sleep or the whispers in the corridors.

She hadn’t managed to call home in nearly two weeks. 

She glanced across at the photo that sat on her bedside table. It had been taken during her last spot of shore leave - she and Harri, arms entwined, enjoying the novelty of actually being able to  _ feel  _ eachother, and Dylan, midway through a yelp of delight, much taller than the last time Angharad had seen him but still swamped in the huge  _ BURAN _ shirt that she had brought back for him. He had worn it for three days straight, until eventually he had to be prised from it while he was asleep so that it could be washed and the cycle began again.

She and Harri  _ had _ tried a more conventional approach to their relationship, briefly. When it had become clear that things between them were getting serious, Angharad had packed everything up, left the  _ Yeager -  _ left Starfleet altogether, in fact - and returned to Earth with the genuine intention of never leaving again. But life on firm ground had proved hard to adjust to, and in the end it had been Harri, whose terror of being in space was second only to her terror of the thought of  _ Angharad _ being in space, who had nudged her back in the direction of her former career.

With the majority of their time together spent, technically, apart, they had adapted. Angharad went back to Earth at every opportunity. Harri and Dylan (whose very name struck fear into the hearts of the  _ Buran _ 's Security Officers after one particularly memorable stay), visited whenever the  _ Buran _ docked at a starbase near enough home that Harri could knock herself out for the flights there and back. In between, they talked as often as they could via video comms. And it worked. Usually. 

Angharad had stuck a note to the photo's frame.

_ DON'T BE LATE. _

Whatever happened, she was going to make it back in time for tonight’s scheduled call.

Her console chimed. She accepted the transmission absent-mindedly, but found herself suddenly wide awake as she realised who it was.

“ _ Commander Jones.” _

“Admiral Cornwell,” Angharad babbled. What was the protocol for addressing an Admiral? She couldn’t remember. She decided to stand, before realising that would mean she couldn’t be seen on screen, and so ended up doing a sort of awkward curtsy. She tried to surreptitiously push away the detritus on her desk so that it was out of frame, remembering too late that her uniform jacket was still in a heap on the floor from the previous evening. “This is … very unexpected.”

“ _ Well, your Captain seems to think that I'll go away if he ignores me for long enough, so I thought I'd talk to an adult instead _ .”

“Oh. Yes. He's - he's been very busy lately,” Angharad improvised, grateful that the quality of the transmission meant it was unlikely that the Admiral would notice the sweat that was already beginning to dampen her hairline. 

Admiral Cornwell sighed. 

“ _ You don't need to protect him, Commander _ ,” she said. “ _ I know what's going on _ .”

“You do?” Angharad said, relief crashing over her. At last, someone who shared her concerns, someone who could tell her what to  _ do _ .

“ _ Unfortunately, yes. I’m well aware he's avoiding me. Anything to put off an awkward conversation. Let's just say I've had plenty of experience where that's concerned. _ ” Admiral Cornwell smiled, a little sadly, Angharad thought. 

“Right. You're right. Yes. Sorry,” Angharad stammered, the hope draining away from her as fast as it had arrived. “Um - what was it you wanted to speak to him about?”

“ _ About you, in fact _ ,” said Admiral Cornwell. “ _ Has Captain Lorca spoken to you about the _ Saruhashi _? _ ”

“He … mentioned it, yes.” Once. A few months ago. And then he'd dropped the idea as suddenly as he'd raised it.

“ _ Good. That's something, at least. You can guess why we're speaking, then. I need to know whether you plan to throw your hat into the ring. _ ”

Angharad paused. Maybe it really was time. Her own captaincy. Her own ship. Like the Captain had said, there was no template for any of this. No such thing as a good Captain. She could muddle through until she worked out how to be a better Captain. And, besides, the thought of leaving, escaping the miasma that was steadily engulfing the  _ Buran _ , was almost intoxicating.

And that was the problem. Leaving the  _ Buran _ . Leaving her crew to flounder alone while things fell apart around their ears. Captain Lorca was already struggling to hold things together. She wasn't sure what another shift in the status quo might do.

“I … don't know,” she said at last. The Admiral rolled her eyes.

“ _ You two are as bad as each other _ ,” she said.

“I just need a little more time to think about it. That's all.”

“ _ Very well.”  _ Admiral Cornwell looked disappointed, but nodded nonetheless. _ “We'll speak again soon, Commander.” _

The transmission had no sooner ended than the intercom at her door chirped. Angharad opened it, grabbing her uniform jacket as she went, to reveal the  _ Buran _ 's Chief of Security waiting impatiently, looking for all the world as though she had been kept hanging about for hours instead of just a few seconds. Landry always looked harassed, but the impression had seemed particularly pronounced of late.

“Thought you should see this,” she said, without any preamble, thrusting a PADD towards Angharad. She took it, doing her best not to be annoyed by Landry’s lack of manners.

“Fine, thanks, how are you, Ellen,” Angharad intoned, flipping through the information displayed. After a few brief seconds of trying and failing to decipher it, she gestured irritably at the screen. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Cardew found it while carrying out routine maintenance. Brought it to me because of the security clearance. Now I’m bringing it to you,” Landry said, clearly enjoying the fact that she had the upper hand. “They're the records from the Captain's little trips to the holodeck over the last month.” 

“Captain Lorca?” Angharad stared at Landry blankly. The Captain had hardly ever set foot in the holodeck after its installation on the  _ Buran  _ a couple of years earlier, declaring it a waste of time after just a single attempt. He had only ever really used it during a brief period of rehabilitation following an injury sustained on an away mission, and even then had treated every visit like a kind of penance, counting down the days until Doctor Trephir would allow him back in the gym. He was practically a technophobe, a trait which, given his place of work, had caused issues on more than one occasion.

“Unless you know of any other Captain around here. The data is pretty well encrypted, but … you'll see what I mean.”

Angharad frowned. Amongst the gibberish on the screen, she could make out a few patterns.

_ >KLING _

_ >KLING _

_ >TELLA _

_ >TELLA _

_ >VULCA _

_ >VULCA _

_ >ROMUL _

_ >KELPI _

_ >VULCA _

_ >VULCA _

_ >ANDOR _

“Weapons training simulations,” continued Landry, tracing a finger down the list of data. “Listed by species. Klingon, Tellarite, Vulcan - you get the idea. Standard issue. Nothing  _ particularly _ unusual, I guess, except for the … frequency of his visits.” That was something of an understatement. Angharad counted at least twelve Vulcan simulations over the last thirty days.

“What the hell is he up to?” breathed Angharad, scrolling ever further down the list.

“Apart from shooting a  _ lot _ of fake Vulcans? I have no idea,” shrugged Landry. “I just look after the phasers. The people are your problem.”

“Thanks,” muttered Angharad. 

“Enjoy,” said Landry, turning to leave. 

“This … this is weird, isn't it?” Angharad called after her. “I mean - I'm not making it up, am I? This  _ is _ weird.”

Landry stopped.

“Cardew thought the ‘deck was glitching,” she replied, noncommittally.

“And what about you? What do you think?”

Landry considered her a moment.

“I think the ‘deck is fine,” she said.

Angharad nodded, staring back down at the PADD.

“So do I.”

*

He re-read the memo, though he had all but committed it to memory now.

_ Starfleet announces the launch of two new Crossfield-class vessels… _

There they were. Stamets and Straal, as self-satisfied and puffed up with their own cleverness as they’d ever been in the Empire. It seemed incredible that Stamets, the man who had betrayed him in that world, could provide his salvation in this, but whatever Fate had planned for him, she clearly had a sense of humour.

They were almost childishly proud of themselves. As far as Starfleet were concerned, they had simply created a way to do what they had always done, but faster. It was laughable.

They had no  _ idea _ of the possibilities.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

He had all but given up hope of ever getting out of this place, until he had seen her.  _ Discovery _ . Like the hand of Destiny herself, guiding him home. To his rightful place. 

The problem, he knew, was that his predecessor was hardly the ideal candidate for the captaincy, hardly even a candidate at all, in fact. Dogged, dependable,  _ dull _ Captain Lorca. Like his ship, a relic of a previous generation. A twenty-five year career of safe decisions. Command would be looking for someone younger, more energetic and forward-thinking, someone who could take the new technology in their stride. 

He would have to find some way to prove that he - they -  _ Captain Gabriel Lorca _ was the man for the job.

*

_ 10:41. Sick Bay. _

It was quiet in sick bay, with a handful of medical officers moving between the few occupied beds in a reassuringly industrious sort of way. 

Angharad peered around, trying to spot the  _ Buran _ 's Chief Medical Officer, still not entirely certain that she was doing the right thing, or even, if she was being honest with herself, what she was planning to say. Under the bright lights of sick bay, it all seemed so ludicrous, in a way that it hadn’t on the journey there. She turned to go, thinking better of it-- 

“Ah- _ ha _ !” 

Before Angharad could defend herself, she was gripped tightly around the face and a bright light was shone in her eyes. 

“Hmm. Reactions are a little sluggish,” came Doctor Trephir’s voice from somewhere behind the glare.

“My reactions are  _ fine,”  _ retorted Angharad, except that her cheeks were being squeezed together, so it came out as “I eeyackshuns rahr  _ fun,”  _ admittedly losing a little of the intended effect along the way. 

The light - and the hand holding her - disappeared and was replaced by a medical tricorder. Angharad blinked furiously, trying to clear the bright spots from her vision.

“This is why people avoid you,” she said reproachfully, rubbing her face.

“Your annual medical examination is now three months overdue, Commander,” said Trephir, ignoring her. His antennae twitched as he reviewed the scanned data. “Hmmm.”

“I've been busy. And what do you mean, ‘hmmm’? You know it makes me nervous when you do that.”

Doctor Trephir finally looked up from the tricorder, clearly dissatisfied with whatever he saw there, and cast a critical eye over her.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“Thanks. Your bedside manner doesn't look much better,” said Angharad, with as much dignity as she could muster.

“My bedside manner is the same as it has always been.  _ This _ ,” the Andorian gestured generally in Angharad’s direction, “is new. Take a seat, we'll get on with this--"

“No - no time for that now, I'm due on the bridge in a bit,” replied Angharad, dodging yet another scanner that had suddenly appeared in the Doctor's hands. She had made up her mind. “I need to talk to you. In  _ private.” _

_ * _

_ >>MESSAGE RECEIVED<< _

_ SECURITY: Standard _

_ I have spoken to Jones about the  _ Saruhashi _. Don’t interfere. _

He felt an uncharacteristic surge of panic as he reviewed the ship’s communications logs. 

He had managed, thus far, to avoid almost all face-to-face contact with Cornwell -  _ Admiral  _ Cornwell, he reminded himself. There was a dynamic to her relationship with his counterpart that he couldn’t quite parse from the few brief words he had exchanged with her. Until he could work out what it was, it was too dangerous to submit himself to unnecessary scrutiny; especially now, now that he could finally see the way ahead opening before him.

But Cornwell had gone behind his back and spoken to Jones directly. Perhaps he had got away with it this time, but there was no knowing what the fool would say, or to whom. She was a liability.

He had no intention of interfering, not if it meant that he could get rid of Jones. In fact, he was happy to help speed on her decision. But in the meantime, he would have to keep her on an even tighter leash. 

He just needed her to give him an excuse.

_ * _

_ 10:47. CMO’s Office. _

Doctor Trephir looked unimpressed.

“You think that the Captain has a virus,” he repeated. “One that causes, uh, sudden memory loss and sight deterioration.”

Angharad nodded, mutely. Parroted back to her, it sounded even more absurd.

“And your … diagnosis is based on the fact that he has been using the holodeck.”

“It makes sense,” said Angharad, latching on to the idea. “It's brighter in there, he can see the targets--"

“But you said he was  _ avoiding _ light.”

“Alright, fine, so it's the other way around, he can  _ lower  _ the lights in there and  _ that's  _ why he's been using it so much.”

“And the memory loss?”

“He … he forgot Tasini’s name.”

“He forgot Tasini’s name,” repeated Trephir flatly. He folded his arms, choosing his words carefully. “That is … not much to go on, Commander.”

“There are other things too - he’s … he’s changed. His personality, I mean. Memory loss could cause that, couldn’t it?”

“It could,” conceded Trephir. “But it might be prudent to consider other, more … mundane explanations first.”

“Look, I know how this sounds,” said Angharad, unable to keep a note of desperation out of her voice, feeling the hypothesis that had worked so well in her head unravel further with each word. “But if there's any chance I'm right and it  _ is _ a virus, don't you think we should check? What if it spreads?”

“If you are right, I would have expected it to have spread already.” 

“OK - so, not a virus, something else. A … genetic thing--"

“Commander, I have no intention of breaching doctor-patient confidentiality. However, I am pleased to reassure you that Captain Lorca attended his annual medical examination -  _ on time  _ \- in January, and I noted no ‘genetic things’ that provided any cause for concern. My main recommendation was that he attempted to get more rest, something I also  _ strongly  _ advise in your case.”

“This is not about me needing more sleep,” snapped Angharad, rubbing her forehead irritably. “I'm not imagining things.”

“I did not mean to imply that you are. Your concern for your friend is commendable. But it may be … over-zealous. The Captain has been under a great deal of strain recently, as have we all. But is is a considerable jump from there to a virus that is robbing him of sight and memories.”

“Maybe you’re right, but … I’m worried about him. And he won’t talk to me anymore.” Had he ever really talked to her? The more she thought about it, the more uncertain she became. She knew how he took his coffee, knew what time he got up in the morning, knew his thoughts on the bureaucracy and political wranglings of Starfleet Command, but what she actually knew about  _ him _ could scarcely fill a sheet of paper. Where was he born? Did he have siblings? A family of any sort? She had no idea. He had never told her any of that, and in her mind he was so intrinsically linked to the  _ Buran _ that she had rarely stopped to consider that he might have some sort of life beyond its confines. Maybe all of this, this mad conspiracy theory she was developing, was just a way to avoid accepting that he had always been like this, and that she had never really known him in the first place.

And yet, for all the things she didn't know, she was certain that the Captain she knew had never had such hard edges before. That he had never valued crew morale so cheaply as he did now. That he had never hidden away from them, alone, in the dark, or found respite in looping endless violent simulations in the holodeck.

“Look, I'm not asking you to drag him down here and stick him with needles. Just do a little … investigation. Please. Talk to Starbase 27, quietly. See if there's anything that could explain this, any patterns. That's where it all started, I'm sure it was.”

“ _ If  _ it started at all.”

Doctor Trephir appraised her for a moment, his hands folded on his lap. His antennae tapped the air in time with his thoughts. 

“I will make some enquiries,” he said at last. “On one condition, Commander.”

“Which is?”

“Get some  _ sleep _ .”

_ * _

_ 21:43. Bridge.  _

Angharad glanced at the chronometer and swore.

There was only one thing that worried her more than falling foul of Captain Lorca in his current mood, and that was incurring the wrath of one particular six-and-a-quarter year old several thousand lightyears away.

The bedtime story was sacred. She couldn't miss it again.

“Cover for me,” Angharad hissed to Xhao.

“Typical XO. Pulling rank again,” Xhao replied, not without a smile. 

“I've had to bail on Dylan three times already this week. He won't forgive me if I miss another one. Please.”

“Go on, go. But what should I tell  _ him _ ?” Xhao nodded towards the Captain's ready room, where he had lurked for the best part of the day.

“You're the Communications specialist,” grinned Angharad. “Surely you can think of something to say?” 

Xhao sighed.

“ _ Fine. _ Say hi to Harri for me.”

“I will.  _ Thank you _ .”

Angharad crept past the doors of the ready room and, as soon as she was clear, sprinted for the turbolifts. After a sticky start - something else to complain to Cardew about - the satisfyingly low-tech solution of couple of thumps on the control panel got things moving and she was soon racing down the corridors of deck 5, feeling a little of the stress of the week lift with every step.

She skidded into her quarters and powered up the console on her desk. She had the perfect story for tonight. Harri would accuse Angharad of corrupting her son, which was pretty much the benchmark for a good evening's entertainment as far as Dylan was concerned--

_ >>ACCESS DENIED<< _

“Oh no,” murmured Angharad. “Nonono. Don't do this to me now. Come on…”

She tried again.

_ >>ACCESS DENIED<< _

“Computer,” she said, glancing impatiently at the time, “Run diagnostics on video comms.”

“ _ All systems fully functional.” _

Angharad rolled her eyes. Clearly not. Cardew was going to have a busy evening. 

“Computer, access video comms system.”

“ _ Insufficient security clearance.” _

The system was completely fried, clearly. It was the only explanation. The only person with higher security clearance than her was--

“ _ Commander Jones, report to the Captain's ready room.” _

Angharad closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, breathing deeply. 

Not the only explanation, then. 

She was being monitored.

Xhao looked surprised to see Angharad back so soon when she arrived on the bridge. Angharad steeled herself before pressing the intercom panel on the doors to the ready room, her mouth dry. 

Captain Lorca was at the window, his back to her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the half light after the glare of the corridor outside. The doors slid shut behind her and she felt suddenly, inexplicably, trapped.

“I didn't give you permission to leave the bridge,” he said, quietly, without turning around.

“Ah. No. Not exactly,” Angharad’s heart began to thump in her chest, feeling the conversation getting away from her before it had really started. “It's just - Dylan--"

“Is not the Captain here.” He turned to face her. “You are being placed on report.”

“Oh, come on, is that really necess--"

“As of today, your video comms rights are revoked and all in- and outbound written communication will be monitored.”  

“This is ridiculous - you have  _ no right _ \--"

“I have the right to keep an eye on anyone whose behaviour endangers my ship.”

Angharad could only gawp, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“I'm sorry,” she started incredulously, “ _ my _ behaviour--” 

“Your conduct and attitude is unbecoming of a First Officer. You undermine my authority at every turn. And now you see fit to disregard it altogether.” He was standing very close to her now and, for the first time in all the years they had worked together, she was struck by how much bigger he was than her. How much he could hurt her, if he wanted to. “Ordinarily, I'd confine you to quarters - but as that seems to be exactly what you want, you will return to your post. And you will remain there until I say so. Do I make myself clear?”

Angharad shook her head in disbelief.

“Do I make myself  _ clear,  _ Commander?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes,  _ sir, _ ” whispered Angharad, her face flushing with fury.

“That's right. Now get out.”

Angharad returned to her workstation, unable to meet Xhao’s questioning gaze. Her hands shook against the touchscreen.

By the time the Captain relented and allowed her to return to her quarters, several hours after her already extended shift should have ended, every muscle in Angharad’s body was screaming. From the corner of her eye she could see him, watching her from the doorway of his ready room as she left the bridge. She kept her head high, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.

The lift stuck. She punched the control panel so hard her knuckles bled.

Finally back in her quarters, an icon flashed in the corner of her screen, informing her that she had missed 26 video transmission requests. Angharad screwed up her face, suppressing the sob that sat in her throat, and took several deep breaths before tapping out a short message home.

_ Comms system down. Sorry. Speak soon.  _

_ Love you both. _

She couldn't manage any more than that. Didn't want to, particularly, with the knowledge that every word she wrote would be scrutinised. 

There was, however, one more message she needed to send.

_ >>MESSAGE READY FOR TRANSMISSION<< _

_ TO: Cornwell, Admiral K. _

_ SECURITY: Standard _

She sent it before she had a chance to change her mind, and only then realised how tightly she had been gripping the desk. 

It wasn't how she had envisaged her career panning out. But he had left her no choice.

*

_ >>MESSAGE RECEIVED<< _

_ SECURITY: Standard _

_ You win. _

The one-line missive from Admiral Cornwell made his blood boil. 

It was infuriating. 

He had given Jones every reason to leave. He had eroded the security of routine, sought to undermine her influence with the crew and, finally, had cut her off from the one pathetic thing that did seem to matter to her.

But she had decided to  _ stay. _

He couldn’t understand it. He knew all about loyalty, had brokered and bought and sold it - for the Emperor, for Michael, for himself - most of his life. Everyone, eventually, had a price, and he knew exactly how to play the market. But loyalty like this - blind, stupid, unconditional - was something he had never seen before. He couldn’t fathom the price his counterpart must have paid for it. Perhaps he had underestimated him.

There lay the problem. The loyalty belonged to the  _ other _ him. And he knew now that, wherever she was, Jones would never stop until she found out what had happened to him. 

It was only a matter of time. 

The console on his desk lit up, and he grunted, half-minded to ignore the transmission request, until he saw the security clearance.

An impassive Admiral Terral broke the news, though it was clear that he was barely in possession of the facts himself, beyond one key thing:

The Federation was at war with the Klingon Empire. 

Lorca smiled as the hologram flickered out of view.

Destiny had led him here, and now, at last, she had provided the one thing he needed to get home.

An  _ opportunity. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of blood.
> 
> Disclaimer: this chapter contains questionable battle tactics, poorly-understood first aid techniques, and handwavy science. Reader discretion is advised.

Captain Gabriel Lorca, ISS and now, unexpectedly, USS  _ Buran _ , was not a man who liked routine. It was  _ safe _ . Gave the day structure. Meant everyone knew what was expected of them. Made it easier for them to spot when things weren’t going right.

He preferred chaos. He knew how to leverage it so that he retained sole control over the narrative. Knew it provided cover for all manner of other sins. 

And now, finally, the war had provided it. While Command panicked, it was simple to position himself as the natural leader the Federation needed. They were like lost little children playing at soldiers. He had torn holes in every tactic they presented in their pathetic excuses for strategy sessions, and they had been  _ grateful. _

And so the  _ Buran  _ had been upgraded from transport duty, to protecting supply lines, to active frontline duty, all within the space of a few short weeks. 

Finally, he had recognition.  _ Respect. _

He wondered what the odds were. Marooned in this godforsaken place, just in time for the event of the century. It was surely more than luck.

It was destiny. All of it.

There was no other way to account for the fact that it was  _ Michael _ who had started the chain of events that had led here.  _ Michael  _ who had precipitated Georgiou's death.  _ Michael  _ who had the courage to do what was necessary. That spark of rebellion, the single-mindedness, the ruthlessness –  _ that _ was the Michael he knew,  _ his _ Michael. Not the quasi-Vulcan xenoanthropologist he'd been so dismayed to discover in her files.

He felt the fury wrench in his stomach at the thought of her in a prison cell.

_ Soon. _

*

_ 16:37. Bridge. _

Funny, how quickly you could trick yourself into accepting the unthinkable. 

They were at war now. They were soldiers. 

Angharad still winced every time she heard that word. Three weeks ago, they were scientists. Explorers. Misfits with big dreams and itchy feet. Three weeks ago, they couldn't have fought their way out of a paper bag, not without talking it into submission first. 

Three weeks. Now, they were  _ soldiers _ . Their days were taken up with drills and manoeuvres. Battle simulations that did nothing to prepare you for the real thing. 

The first time they had neutralised a target _ \-  _ not destroyed a ship, not ended 137 lives, not torn apart who knew how many families, but  _ neutralised a target  _ \- there had been a horrified, stunned silence on the bridge. Several had shed tears they tried to hide. Ensign Tasini had been sick. 

It was held up by Command as a great tactical victory.

In the mess hall, in the corridors, the crew all wore the same expression. 

_ What the hell are we doing here? _

Almost all of them. The Captain - well, he looked like a man who had finally found his calling. It was as if he had a new lease of life. He was driven, sharper, more focussed. He was  _ good  _ at being a soldier. It was something to do with his time in Security, Angharad supposed; that ability to compartmentalise. To break situations down into threats and opportunities. To see tactics and strategies where she saw only chaos and kids a long way from home. 

To face the unthinkable and still be able to face yourself in the mirror. 

She had to admit that she was glad he was on their side.

As worried as she had been about him - as concerned as she still was about the additional strain he was now putting himself under, seemingly determined as he was to single-handedly turn around the Federation's fortunes - her investigations into the Captain's health had been put on hold. Doctor Trephir had been as good as his word, even though the war had rearranged his priorities somewhat. He had provided Angharad with a report of all of the various ailments being treated on Starbase 27 at the time of the conference, thanks to a gossipy colleague on the base who owed him a favour. But there was nothing of any note. A small outbreak of Levodian flu, a few cases of transporter shock ascribed to the difficult conditions caused by the ion storm, and some broken bones - which the Doctor had unhelpfully labelled with the comment ‘not usually contagious’ - among other miscellaneous complaints. Angharad had read through it several times, certain that she must have missed something important, before finally admitting defeat. She wasn’t sure what she had expected. But she had fancied herself as a detective, and now, having hit the hardest of dead ends, she felt even more ridiculous than before. 

It wasn't as though there weren't plenty of other things to worry about.

“Incoming Klingon warp signature detected--"

Captain Lorca was on his feet in an instant. 

“Red alert, battle stations!”

The crew scrambled to their positions, the hours of red alert drills having honed their reflexes, but the Klingon vessel had the element of surprise, and the first torpedo clipped the  _ Buran  _ before they had a chance to respond. 

Angharad watched as the first retaliatory shots from the  _ Buran  _ passed harmlessly over the Klingon raider.

“This is not a damn fireworks display, Graav!” growled Captain Lorca. “ _ Hit them.” _

“Aye, sir,” grunted Graav, furious. He let loose another round of torpedoes, making his mark this time, but was rewarded with yet another strike from the Klingons’ cannons. 

“Targeting systems are offline!” yelled Graav.

“Hazell - evasive pattern delta 5, now!”

“Yessir!”

The  _ Buran _ wove in and out of the path of the Klingon vessel. Four nacelles gave them an advantage over short distances, but it came at a cost - Cardenas-class ships were were cumbersome and, despite Captain Lorca's assertions to the contrary, handled with all the grace of a tank. It was the biggest design flaw of ships in the class, and the main reason that Starfleet were phasing them out. It took all of Hazell’s concentration to keep them steady.

“Graav, where the hell are my guns?”

“Recalibrating systems - two minutes, sir!”

“Hazell!”

“On it, sir!”

Hazell executed a series of complex evasive manoeuvres, buying precious seconds while Graav battled to bring their weapons systems back online.

Another direct hit sent them tumbling and set alarms wailing at Hazell’s workstation.

_ “ _ Starboard 2 is non-responsive, diverting power to starboard 1,” he called, engaging the gravity clamp on his wheelchair. “Buckle up, this could get bumpy--”

That was an understatement. Although the  _ Buran  _ could maintain high speeds while running on just three nacelles, it was far from a smooth ride - stability was degraded to such a degree that, even under Hazell’s guidance, she pitched and swayed horribly with every turn. Angharad did her best to hold on to her workstation and her breakfast as they performed another defensive manoeuvre.

“Graav,  _ do we have torpedoes _ ?” bellowed Captain Lorca. He was almost sent flying as the  _ Buran  _ rocked wildly, only just about managing to stay upright by grabbing hold of a vacant operations console.

“Online in 10 seconds!”

“Jones?”

“Shields holding at seventy percent!”

“Hazell - take us in!”

“Aye, sir!”

The bridge crew clung to whatever they could reach as the  _ Buran  _ turned sharply, back towards the Klingon raider. Captain Lorca, one arm mooring him safely upright, the other raised like the conductor of an orchestra, was directing them right under the belly of the other vessel.

“Torpedoes are online!”

“ _ Fire! _ ”

A further missile struck the  _ Buran  _ as Graav launched their retaliation - out of the corner of her eye Angharad saw one of the bridge consoles explode, sparks flying, and managed to duck just in time to avoid being struck by flying debris. She clambered awkwardly to her feet, coughing to clear the acrid smoke burning her throat, shielding her eyes as the viewscreen seemed to burst into flame.

_ Target neutralised.  _

“Commander!”

Angharad spun around. It took her a moment to realise what Xhao was looking at. 

Captain Lorca lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The front of his uniform was darkened by a wine-red stain, radiating ever further from the huge, jagged piece of metal sticking out of his chest.

“He was standing right next to the console when it exploded--” Xhao began shakily. 

_ Shit. _

Four strides, and Angharad had crossed the bridge and was knelt at his side. He was breathing, just about, but his breaths were shallow and his skin was already turning a nasty shade of grey, his forehead drenched in sweat. She remembered vague fragments of her emergency training, enough to know that he was going into shock, enough to know that she had to apply pressure around the object that had impaled him, but there was so much blood that it seemed almost impossible that she could do anything to stop it--

“Computer, two for emergency site-to-site transport - bridge to sick bay!”

Captain Lorca’s eyes half-opened as the transporter beam faded around them.

“You bloody idiot,” Angharad muttered to him, fighting back tears. “Why can’t you ever just  _ sit still _ ?”

A look that might have been a smile, and his eyes closed again. 

“Captain?”

There was no response.

“Captain?” she tried again, her heart pounding. “No - no, come on, you stupid, stubborn bastard, don’t you  _ dare - Gabriel! _ ” 

Suddenly there voices all around them, and hands gripping her shoulders, and she was being pulled away from the Captain while the medical team rushed him through to surgery.  

“No, let me  _ go _ \--” Angharad struggled, but she was held in a vice-like grip. She was propelled around and found herself facing Doctor Trephir.

“Let us work, Commander.”

“I want to stay, I want to help--”

“There is nothing you can do for him that my team are not already doing. But the  _ Buran  _ needs a commanding officer.”  

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in.

_ Shit. _

“Right. Right.”

Back to the bridge, back to the noise and the smell of smoke.

“Is everyone alright?” Angharad addressed the crew.

There was a general, if slightly unconvincing, consensus. 

“Is he--?” started Xhao.

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” said Angharad, more sharply than she intended. “Lieutenant - can we go to warp?”

“No, sir - warp drive is non-responsive--”

“Then impulse will do fine - get us as far into Federation Space as you can, as quickly as you can. Maintain yellow alert, stay on long range sensors - if there are more of them out there we need to know.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Dispatch additional fire crews to deck 7, and I want all personnel with medical training to report to sick bay to assist response teams.”

Some sort of weird instinct had taken hold. As reports flew in from across the ship, it was like she was watching things unfold through a window. Somehow, the distance helped her see things more clearly. She couldn’t fix everything, but she could manoeuver things so that the right teams had the right resources. Non-essential power re-routed to Engineering. Extra hands to help with the clear-up operation. Whatever was necessary. But she couldn’t stop to think about decisions. As soon as she did that, it all became noise again. She had to keep moving.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the onslaught of reports slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Angharad found herself releasing a sigh of relief.

_ “Commander Jones, report to sick bay.” _

_ Shit.  _

Angharad signalled to Xhao that she should take over, and set off again. The turbolifts were out of action, so she was forced to make use of the network of service ladders that linked the decks instead and arrived at sick bay, slightly out of breath, a few minutes later than she would have liked.

“Report.”

“The Captain is in a very serious condition, but stable. He is undergoing emergency surgery now. Response teams are still dealing with minor injuries on-site shipwide. There are eleven crewmembers receiving treatment for more serious injuries in sick bay. But…” the Doctor trailed off. 

Angharad swallowed. 

“How many?” she asked, quietly.

“There have been seven fatalities. Four in Engineering. Three from Security.”

Angharad sank down onto the edge of one of the unoccupied beds, the adrenaline knocked clean out of her. 

“I'll need to tell their families,” she said hoarsely. “They should know.” 

“You should rest first--"

“They should know,” repeated Angharad flatly. “And it should come from someone who knew them. Not some desk jockey at Command.” She rubbed her forehead. “Sleep won't change what happened.”

Doctor Trephir clearly disapproved, but nodded nonetheless.

“As you wish. I will send you the … relevant documents.”

Angharad stared at the ceiling.

“What do I tell them?” she asked. Doctor Trephir looked away for a moment. He had given out more than his share of bad news over the years. 

“The truth,” he said, eventually. “There is little else that can be said at such a time.”

“Right. You're right.” She stood up. “I should go--"

“Commander, if you are determined not to rest, might I at least make one suggestion?” 

Trephir gestured towards her, and Angharad looked down, taking in the state of her uniform for the first time. She was covered in dried blood.

“I’m pretty sure none of it's mine,” she managed, and then just about made it to the waste extraction unit before she threw up.

“Sorry,” she said weakly, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. 

“I was about to commend you on the accuracy of your aim,” Trephir deadpanned, medical tricorder in hand. “Hmmm.”

“We've talked about ‘hmmm’,” muttered Angharad, closing her eyes and leaning against the wall while she waited for the nausea to pass.

“No physical injuries. But you have just experienced a highly stressful and traumatic event.” He passed her a sealed hypospray. “This will help you sleep, should you require it. You are to report to counselling if you continue to experience any adverse effects over the next few days.”

“The bridge crew went through the same thing I did. Engineering and Security have lost people. I want them all checked out too. Everyone.”

“They will be,” he reassured her. “In the meantime, you should clean yourself up. You are a contamination risk.”

“This contamination risk is your commanding officer,” grumbled Angharad, but she sloped off nonetheless to the side room indicated by the Doctor, where a shower and change of uniform went some way towards making her feel at least vaguely normal.

Doctor Trephir looked up when she returned and passed her a mug. 

“What is it?” she asked, looking at its contents dubiously.

“Tea. It is my understanding that it is considered by humans from your general region to be an appropriate response to most crises.”

“Oh.” She didn't have the heart to tell him that she never drank tea and risked a sip. It was surprisingly comforting. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. I find it entirely unpalatable, but then again I have never understood human tastes.” He looked at her, head tilted to one side. “Do you feel well enough to resume your duties?”

Angharad blew out her cheeks.

“Don't have much choice, do I?” she asked, nodding in the general direction of the imaging chambers, where Captain Lorca was receiving treatment. She tried not to think too much about what she had seen earlier, feeling her stomach flip again.

“There is always a choice.”

“People are counting on me. He's counting on me. I'll be OK.” She looked down at the mug. “I have some calls to make.”

“Very well. Captain.”

She paused in the doorway.

“Make sure you don’t have to call me that for too long, alright?”

Things were calm when she returned to the bridge. Angharad stopped at Xhao’s station.

“I snapped at you earlier,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Xhao looked surprised.

“No need to apologise,” she replied.

“There is. I was rude. There are no excuses.”

“Already forgotten about it,” smiled Xhao. Angharad could only nod her thanks. 

“Get some rest, OK? Gamma shift can take over from here.”

She retreated to the Captain's ready room, clasping the mug of tea before her like a shield, and called up the records from Doctor Trephir. She opened the first, and barely made it past the name at the top of the file before the tears started.

She sobbed for a while, quietly at first, then with sounds that seemed almost inhuman, that tore at her throat and left her gasping for breath. Sobbed until she shook, the weight of the responsibility of what she had to do bearing down heavily on her.

Then, subdued at last, she took a deep breath. Replicated a fresh cup of tea. Started on the files again.

She tapped the first name into the comms system and waited with a sick feeling in her stomach until there was a response.

“Mrs Tasini? I'm Com- Acting Captain Angharad Jones of the USS  _ Buran _ . I'm … I have … it's about Nico.”

*

_ 02:18. First Officer's Quarters.  _

Angharad turned the hypospray over and over in her hand. The lights in her quarters were dimmed. Lying in the dark had proved to be unbearable. 

She sat bolt upright, realisation suddenly dawning. She had been using the video comms system all evening.

_ Video comms. _

It made sense. With the Captain out of action, all authorisation would re-route to her. And that meant--

Angharad felt a choke of relief as her screen flickered into life.

She glanced at the chronometer, trying to work out the time difference in her head. It would be late, but there was still a chance she'd be awake--

“ _ Annie?”  _

Harri. Breathless, hair askew, pyjama-clad. More beautiful even than Angharad remembered her.

“ _ Oh my god - when I saw the time I thought--” _

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you - I'd have given you a heads up if I'd known I'd be able to call,” replied Angharad quickly. “I just - I couldn't wait to see you.”

“ _ Does this mean the system's working again?” _

“I don't know. Cardew thinks it might just be temporary,” Angharad lied. She couldn't bear the thought of Harri realising it was her fault they hadn't been able to speak in so long. “So I thought I'd make the most of it.”

“ _ I'm glad you did _ .”

“Me too.”

Angharad let Harri do most of the talking, happy to let the familiar lilt of her voice soothe her frayed nerves. Harri talked about work, about Dylan’s latest exploits, about their ridiculous neighbours, who had taken to building a shelter in their garden in preparation for an imagined Klingon invasion.

_ “Can you imagine?”  _ Harri laughed.  _ “Klingons invading bloody Aberystwyth.” _

She told Angharad about the darker side of life back home, too. How, since the start of the war, there had been a marked rise in anti-alien rhetoric. It didn’t seem to matter which species - Federation allies, kids who had spent their whole lives there, diplomats, elderly immigrants who had retired to Earth for a quiet life - the vitriol was sprayed indiscriminately at all non-humans. Never mind that they were fighting and dying for the same cause as humans. Never mind the fact that it was a human who had provided the spark that had ignited the war in the first place. 

_ “I thought we were beyond all this. I hoped we were better than this.”  _ Harri shook her head.  _ “Our friends don't feel welcome here anymore. This thing has brought out the worst in people.” _

“It’ll bring out the best in people too. You'll see,” said Angharad. “We'll find a peaceful solution.”

_ “I hope you're right.” _

_ “Annie?” _

_ “Oi!” _

Harri ducked offscreen briefly, and Angharad heard the clattering sounds of the well-rehearsed struggle to corral Dylan back into bed. But his stubbornness knew no bounds, and suddenly Angharad’s screen was filled by a pair of big brown eyes and a nose squished up against the glass.

_ “ANNIE!” _

“Too close, space-face,” laughed Angharad. 

_ “Just - will you  _ please _ \- oh, for goodness sake--"  _ Harri managed somehow to wrestle Dylan back to a more appropriate distance, wiping the screen clean with one hand and holding her wriggling son in her lap with the other.

“Shouldn't you be asleep?” Angharad asked, doing her best to look stern, but barely able to contain her delight.

_ “You're not. Mum's not.”  _ Six-and-a-quarter going on sixteen.

“Fair point.” 

“ _ Annie! _ ” Dylan, suddenly remembering something that was clearly of vital importance, contorted himself to lean across Harri, snatching up a piece of paper on the desk in front of her. He held it aloft, arms stretched out as far as he could reach so that Angharad could see it. “ _ I drew this for you. _ ”

It was a simple, but surprisingly accurate, drawing of the  _ Buran.  _ All four nacelles present and correct, the registry number slightly wonky but in the right spot. And on top of the saucer section--

“What am I doing up there?” laughed Angharad. Dylan gave her a withering look that even Doctor Trephir would have struggled to better.

“ _ You can see space better from there _ .”

Obviously. 

“ _ Do you like it?”  _ A tiny crease appeared between Dylan's eyebrows, betraying a dent in his usually endless confidence.

“Do I  _ like _ it? Are you joking? When I get back, I'm getting it framed.” 

The crease deepend.

“ _ When you get back from the wall?”  _ he asked.

Harri caught Angharad’s eye and hastily mouthed  _ ‘don't’  _ from behind Dylan's head. She needn't have worried. Angharad had no intention of correcting him.

“Yeah. When I'm back from the wall,” she replied, swallowing back the lump in her throat.

“ _ Can't you just fly over it?” _

“Well … it's quite big. That's the problem,” said Angharad. “But we're working on it. We're working really hard.”

Dylan nodded sagely. It seemed like a satisfactory state of affairs to him.

_ “Can I have a story?”  _

Angharad looked at Harri, who shrugged, defeated.

_ “He's wide awake anyway, _ ” she said.

“Well, it just so happens that I have the  _ perfect _ story…”

Harri hated it just as much as Angharad had imagined she would, but Dylan, delighted and newly equipped with the word ‘flatulence’, agreed to go to sleep when it was done, to the great surprise of both of them. Angharad watched as he jumped down from Harri’s lap and trotted off, the curly top of his head bobbing along the bottom of the screen until he was out of sight. Harri listened for a moment, her head on one side.

“He hasn’t gone to bed, has he,” sighed Angharad. It wasn’t a question.

_ “He’s not even pretending.” _

Harri looked at her. Angharad could read the concern in her eyes, without a single word being spoken, and looked away, not wanting her to know that she was right to be worried. 

_ “Your turn to talk.” _

“I’ve talked.”

_ “ _ ‘The Planet of the Farts’ _ doesn’t count as talking.” _

“There’s not much I’m allowed to tell you. The censor circuit will kick in.”

_ “Then just tell me what you can. As much as you want. As much as you need to.” _

And so, despite herself, Angharad talked. Not about everything, because everything was too much, far too much, but about everything that she could manage. She wove a narrative out of the gaps in between the things that had happened that day; about fear, and sadness, and loss and feeling lost. And somehow, at the end of it all, she felt a little better.

Angharad rubbed her eyes, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day catch up with her.

“I wish you were here,” she said quietly.

_ “I don’t.” _

Angharad laughed.

“Alright, I wish I was there.”

_ “No you don’t.”  _ The corners of Harri’s eyes crinkled with amusement. _ “You’d take one look at the Grice’s Klingon shelter and run screaming for the nearest shuttle.” _

“Fine - I wish I was with you. Somewhere in between.”

_ “Now, that sounds good.” _

They sat in silence a moment, neither wishing to break the spell by admitting that no such place existed. It might. It could. On the other side of the wall.

_ “I should go,”  _ Harri said sadly. _ “Dylan’s running amok upstairs. And  _ you _ need to get some sleep, Acting Captain Jones.” _

Angharad held up a hand, pressed it to the screen, against Harri’s, across the lightyears.

“Love you,” she whispered.

_ “Love you, too. Be safe.” _

Harri’s face disappeared as the transmission ended and was replaced by the soft blue glow of the Starfleet emblem. 

Angharad stayed in the same position, a sob lodged somewhere in her chest and her hand still occupying the space where Harri’s hadn't been, and remained there until she finally fell asleep.

_ * _

_ Not dead. Too much pain. _

He tried to hold on to consciousness, but it was like trying to grip smoke.

_ Drugged. Where? _

He managed to move one hand enough to reach beyond the edge of the bed he lay on, and his fingers brushed against cold metal.

_ Prison. Emperor. _

No,  _ not _ the Emperor, he realised. The images came flooding back now. The transporter. The ship that wasn't his ship. Klingons. Explosion. 

_ Sick bay. _

He opened his eyes at last, and let out an involuntary cry of pain at the light, so bright that it burned. 

_ No. _

He couldn't be here. They would find out, learn everything. They couldn't, not now, not when he was so close, not when  _ Discovery  _ was almost within reach.

He had to get out.

A small, insistent alarm began to ring, and he heard muffled voices on the other side of wherever it was they were holding him.

“He's awake--"

“He's supposed to be sedated--"

“He  _ is _ sedated!”

There was the heavy  _ clunk _ of a door opening somewhere by his feet, and suddenly the bed was moving and he was being pulled out of what he realised now was the  _ Buran' _ s imaging chamber. He struggled to raise a hand to shield his eyes but his arm was held down by one of the orderlies.

He had to get out.

“Captain, try to stay still. The regeneration programme isn't finished--"

His right eyelid was forced open, and he howled in agony as yet another light was shined directly into his eye.

“Hypospray! We need to get him back under sedation.”

“No--"

“Captain, you need to  _ stay calm _ \--"

“ _ No _ ,” he snarled, and somehow, despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to stop, he managed to break free of the orderly’s grip and staggered from the bed.

He had to get out--

“Captain--"

He swung a wild punch, but he could barely see and his reactions were sluggish, and so the blurred target ducked easily out of his reach. He reeled, convinced for a moment that he had been shot, until he felt blood, hot, pouring down his chest and realised that he had torn open the half-healed wound there anew. Before he could regain his balance he was set upon by a pair of doctors - another blind jab with his fist made contact with something, but it wasn't enough and he was pinned back down to the bed, while all around him voices called out.

“Get Doctor Trephir--"

“He's having a reaction--”

“Give me that sedative!”

“ _ No! _ ” 

He felt the hypospray puncture his neck, and then everything went black.

*

_ 08:00 hours. Bridge. _

“Morning all,” said Angharad, settling into the Captain’s chair. A chorus of greetings - a little tired, a little sad, but resolute - echoed around the bridge.

Ensign Tasini’s station was empty. She would have to assign someone to take over from him sooner or later, she knew. Later sounded just fine. Later, the memory of his mother’s face as Angharad broke the news might have subsided to a dull ache, rather than the stabbing agony it caused now. Later.

“How’s the Captain?” asked Hazell, glancing back over his shoulder at her.

“Improving,” replied Angharad. “He’s not awake yet, but it looks like he’ll be alright.” 

It wasn’t a lie, though it was arguably an economical deployment of the truth according to  Doctor Trephir’s report. In the end, he had been forced to keep Captain Lorca in a medically-induced coma, for the safety of the medical team as much as the Captain’s own health. But even at this early stage, he was showing signs of good progress, far ahead of the Doctor's initial estimates. 

He really was a stubborn bastard. 

The  _ Buran  _ had been recalled from the frontline to allow for time to fully complete repairs. Angharad was grateful for the respite the journey back into Federation space would provide the crew. 

Their coordinates set, she was about to give the order to go to warp when she spotted it, out of the corner of her eye, on the viewscreen. It seemed almost incongruous after all that they had been through.

“Wait - hold it there.”

Hazell eased the  _ Buran  _ to a halt.

“Enhance.”

“Aye, sir.”

The nebula was beautiful. Angharad found herself standing up, as though somehow that might allow her to let more of it in. 

“We haven't done this for a while,” said Xhao, gazing at the viewscreen. 

“No,” murmured Angharad, the colours washing over her face. “We haven't, have we?”

There was silence for a while, as they all took in the view.

“Should I..?” asked Hazell, at last.

“Not yet, Lieutenant. I think the war can wait five minutes, don't you?”


	6. Chapter 6

He replayed the image again in his mind.

The way she had looked at him when she thought he was dying. The same way the other Jones had looked when she had realised he wasn't dead. 

No. Not quite the same. The other Jones had been terrified of him. This Jones was terrified  _ for  _ him.

This place was dangerous. 

Back home, the rules of the game were clear. Trust no-one. Take everything, or lose everything. Free will was a fantasy. All you could do was ensure that when the time came, you held the balance of power.

Here, the rules were so subtle, the tactics so insidious, that you barely even noticed them. Free will was still a fantasy, but it was so deeply ingrained that none of them dared question it. None of them saw how, in reality, they were all under the control of the Federation. How their every move served to fuel the behemoth of its propaganda regime. How their claims of peace masked their expansionist agenda. 

The Klingons saw it, and feared it. They were right to.

Free will. Trust. Tolerance.  _ Equality _ . Concepts that could destabilise the Empire. Here, they had been weaponised so effectively that the assault was silent. A fact of life. 

It was the finest example of totalitarian control he had ever seen.

But he understood the rules now. Understood how to bend them. Understood how to use the Federation's own tactics against them. 

For that reason alone, his stay on the  _ Buran  _ had not been a waste of time. Far from it, in fact. But it had outlasted its usefulness. It was a hindrance now, a threat to his continued survival. 

That filthy Andorian hadn't believed for one moment that his behaviour in sick bay had been caused by a medical reaction to the treatment he had received. He had managed to persuade him that he had been confused - upon waking up, still half-sedated and finding himself apparently imprisoned, he had lashed out at his supposed captors. His only thought had been of getting back to his ship, the safety of his crew. With no evidence to the contrary, the Andorian had been forced to believe him - after all, what reason could the Captain  _ possibly _ have for attacking his own crew? - and had reluctantly agreed to allow him to return to active duty, far ahead of the Doctor's recommended recovery plan. 

Tomorrow, he would be back in command.

It couldn't come soon enough. There had been a look in the alien’s eyes that he hadn't liked. Suspicious. That was the problem with Andorians. They never knew when to back down. And this one held all the evidence required to destroy him. It wouldn't be long before the good doctor realised it. 

Up until now, his plan had been simple. Win the  _ Discovery.  _ Win Michael. Take revenge. Take what was his. 

But now, there was a complication. Now, he had to bury the evidence.

Fortunately, he was nothing if not adaptable. He had used his enforced stay in recovery wisely, and the new plan was already in motion. 

The door chimed. Right on time.

Landry surveyed him disapprovingly as the doors of his ready room slid closed behind her, shutting out the hubbub of the bridge.

“You look like shit,” she said at last, arms folded. “Why the hell aren't you still in sick bay?”

“Careful, Commander. You're in danger of making me suspect that you care.”

“I don't. A Captain who could pass out at any second is just another security risk for me to deal with. Why not leave Jones in charge a few days more?”

He scoffed.

“And when the Klingons come calling?” he asked. “We'd all be dead before she finally made the decision to fire.”

“If the crew were in danger, I think she'd do whatever was necessary.”

“Hmm.”

Landry crossed to the window, resting her hands on the ledge and looking out. He could just make out her face in the reflection. Tired, drawn.

“What do you want?” she asked, still facing away from him. “If you think for one second I believe you're -  _ cleared for active duty _ , you're even more of an asshole than I thought you were.”

He stood, glad that she missed him wince as he felt the still-raw skin on his chest tug.

“You have a new assignment,” he told her. “ _ Discovery. _ Pride of the Federation. Congratulations.”

“What?”

“They were looking for the best. I recommended you.” And, of course, she was a useful bargaining chip. Show willing. Prove that the officers who came through the ranks under him were the finest in the fleet. Give Command yet another reason to hand over  _ Discovery  _ to him. “You ship out tonight. Command wants her Security team in shape before she leaves the docks.” 

“What the  _ fuck?” _

She turned so sharply that he was forced to step back.

“You're sending me away?” she snarled. 

“Not exactly,” he smiled and held out an arm to prevent her from bolting. Leaned around her so that she was pinned between his body and the bulkhead. “You're not the only one here with ambitions _ ,  _ Commander.”

Landry stared at him, wrongfooted.

“ _ Discovery  _ already has a Captain lined up,” she said, suddenly uncertain.

“Had. Lost her at the Battle of the Binary Stars. Careless.”

“And you’re..?”

“Not officially. Not yet. But it's just a matter of time now.”

She frowned, trying to translate his expression.

“You'd leave the  _ Buran _ ?”

He smiled and leaned in towards her, felt her tense and then, slowly, inexorably, melt under the brush of his hands against her hips.  _ There.  _

Some tactics worked in every universe. 

“The  _ Buran _ is just a ship,” he murmured, his lips against her throat. “But  _ Discovery … Discovery  _ will make  _ history. _ ”

*

_ 22:47. First Officer's Quarters.  _

“When I get back, let's go away. Anywhere you like.”

Over the past week, Angharad had spent practically every spare minute calling home. Making up for lost time. 

_ “Paris?”  _ Harri sounded hopeful. 

“Paris it is. We'll have to stay well away from HQ, though. I have no intention of behaving in a manner befitting an Officer of Starfleet.”

_ “You are  _ not  _ turning this into a working holiday.” _

“Absolutely not. I’ll be incognito. I shall wear a beret and a comically large moustache,” said Angharad grandly, warming to the idea. “No one will be any the wiser. You'll be effortlessly chic, obviously.”

_ “We'll stay for long enough that you get used to eating proper food again. And you’ll wear sunscreen even if it's cloudy. Factor 50. I don't want a repeat of our second anniversary.” _

“Oh god, me either.” Three days burnt to a crisp after so long spent under artificial light, eating nothing but plain toast. And even that had given her a stomach ache. Not the romantic weekend she'd envisaged.

_ “What about Dylan?” _

“I'll bring back enough space junk to keep him occupied for a month. I think Cardew still has a broken replicator lying around that he could take to pieces. And  _ we  _ will have a hotel room with very good privacy settings.”

_ “You know, I think I like Acting Captain Jones.” _

“I wouldn't get too used to her. It's back to plain old First Officer Jones tomorrow.”

_ “She'll do just fine.”  _ Harri smiled, but the smile didn't last long.  _ “I should go. It's very late here. Or very early, depending on how you look at it.” _

“Just - just five more minutes?” pleaded Angharad. Tomorrow, the Captain was back. Tomorrow, command settings would re-route to him. Tomorrow, the  _ Buran _ returned to the frontline. There was no knowing when she'd be able to call next.

_ “You said that an hour ago.” _

“Then another five minutes won't make much difference, will it?”

It would. It would make all the difference in the world. 

_ “I never could say no to that face.” _

“Good. Now, tell me about the garden…”

*

_ 07:00 hours. Captain's Ready Room. _

Angharad stood up as he entered.

“Morning, Captain.” 

He eased himself into his chair, ignoring the cup of coffee waiting for him.

“Report.”

Straight back to work it was, then.

“Uh - repairs are complete. Cardew’s team got starboard 2 fully functional just last night. In your absence I … redeployed teams. We should be able to hold until our new crewmembers join us. And we've had notification that Commander Landry reported for duty on _Discovery_ at 06:00.” She did her best to keep her tone neutral, but some hint of her irritation at being blindsided whilst, technically, still in command must have broken through. Captain Lorca looked at her, his head to one side, and raised an eyebrow.

“Something to say, Jones?”

“It … would have been useful to have received prior notification of her departure. Given the current situation. We'll work around it,” she added hastily, keen to avoid getting off to a bad start, today of all days. “The crew would have liked to say goodbye to her properly, though.”

“We are at war, Jones,” Captain Lorca replied flatly. “There’s not always time for goodbyes.”

“I'm learning that, sir.”

She watched nervously as he flipped through a couple of the reports stacked in front of him, his expression impassive.

“You did well,” he said at last.

Angharad blinked.

“Thank you, sir.”

He tapped the side of his coffee mug.

“I'm told you saved my life,” he said, staring resolutely at a corner of the desk.

“I can't take any credit for that,” Angharad replied. “It was the Doc and his team who stitched you back together. I just got in the way, really.”

“Thirty seconds,” he said. “That's what the Doctor said. Thirty seconds more, and my fate would have been very different.”

It was probably the closest she'd get to a thank you, she supposed. 

Angharad watched him. He looked awful. Pale and poorly-shaven, like he hadn't slept in weeks, the way he'd looked when he'd got back from Starbase 27. But there was something else. She wasn't sure what she had expected - that he would seem smaller, perhaps, more mortal, after what had happened. Instead, he looked like a man who had confronted his own death and found it to be nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“You'd do the same for any of us, sir,” she shrugged.

He looked up at that, and half smiled.

He picked up the wooden bowl from his desk and held it out to her. It was full of fortune cookies for the first time in months. Angharad grinned, picking the first that came to hand.

She snapped it open.

“Oh,” she said, mildly disappointed. 

“Hmm?”

“Empty.” She crunched on the pieces with a shrug. “Need to get that replicator looked at again.”

The Captain, meanwhile, had broken open his own cookie. He glanced at the slip inside, his brow furrowing.

“Come on, let's have it,” said Angharad. 

“ _ Hate is never conquered by hate,”  _ he intoned. _ “Hate is conquered by love. _ ” 

He screwed the slip up into a tiny ball and tossed it across the desk, unimpressed. 

“It wasn't  _ that _ bad.” 

“Read it to the Klingons and see how you fare.”

“ _ Commander Jones, please report to sick bay.” _

Puzzled by the summons, Angharad turned to the Captain.

“Go on,” he said. “I'll manage without you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She paused, her hand on the door control. 

“It's good to have you back, Captain,” she said.  

He nodded. 

The door closed behind her. He thought for a moment, his fingers drumming a beat on the edge of the desk.

It was a shame. But she was of no further use.

_ 07:21. Sick Bay. _

“Commander!”

“Morning, Doc. What haven’t I done this time?”

Doctor Trephir was as close to agitated as Angharad had ever seen him. He gestured her into his office wordlessly, and she followed him, baffled.

“Computer - privacy,” he said. His antennae were practically quivering. 

“What's happened?” asked Angharad, feeling a charge of panic. Trephir was usually completely unflappable. Whatever it was, something was very wrong.

“Commander…” he began. He raised a hand, as if trying to grasp the words he was searching for, and Angharad was alarmed to realise that it was shaking. “I should never have run the tests. There was no medical need to. But after the attack, his behaviour was so peculiar - I had the sample and … I wanted to test your hypothesis.”

“What sample? What  _ tests _ , Doctor?”

He shook his head.

“Commander,” he tried again. “You were  _ right. _ ”

*

_ >>INCOMING TRANSMISSION<< _

_ PRIORITY: URGENT _

_ Intelligence suggests presence of several Klingon warships in Sector 543-28G. All vessels ordered to reroute immediately. _

There she was. Destiny again. Right on schedule. 

He purged the memo from the ship's logs.

“Captain on the bridge!”

He clapped his hands together and the crew snapped to attention.

“New orders. Reconnaissance mission. Sector 543-28G. Set a course. Warp 7.”

*

_ 07:43. CMO’S Office. _

Angharad stared at the Doctor, her mouth dry.

“Are you sure?” she managed.

“I ran the tests three times,” Trephir replied, his hands knotting and unknotting in front of him. “I should not be showing you this. But I am already in violation of a minimum of four separate protocols. Adding betrayal of doctor-patient confidentiality to that list seemed relatively inconsequential.”

“You did the right thing,” Angharad reassured him, though in truth she was just as lost as he was.

She looked back at the screen, as though that might somehow change what was displayed there. The Doctor, who usually loathed having to reduce the mysteries of his profession down to words of three syllables or less, had done a commendable job of ensuring that she understood, more or less, what she was seeing. 

In a nutshell: on the left-hand side were blood test results and DNA sequenced from Captain Lorca’s annual medical examination, back in January. 

On the right - something else. 

“The best-case scenario is that you are entirely correct, and that Captain Lorca has been exposed to some sort of virus which has not only affected his memory, but has begun to rearrange the very fabric of his DNA.” 

“That doesn't sound like much of a best-case scenario, Doctor.”

“I concur. It is also highly implausible. You are familiar with the ancient principle of Occam’s Razor?”

“Simplest solution is usually the best?”

“In essence. If we apply that principle in this instance…” he trailed off.

“The Captain is not the Captain,” murmured Angharad.

Doctor Trephir nodded mutely.

“So … he has … a twin?” tried Angharad, and almost immediately regretted it. At any other time, she would have almost been impressed by the amount of disappointment that Trephir managed to pack into his expression.

“This is not one of your human children's stories,” he said. “No, Captain Lorca does not have a  _ twin _ ."

“Who the hell is it, then?”

“I … have no idea.”

“But - he's human, right? Tell me he's  _ human _ , at least?”

“The structure of these two samples is virtually identical, but there are several small points of divergence which--"

“Doc,” said Angharad warningly, before he had a chance to build up too much steam. “In Federation Standard, please.”

“I ... think so. But I have never seen anything like this before.”

The two charts hung between Angharad and the Doctor, the glow of the light they cast burning truth, terrible and inescapable. 

She had known something was wrong. Felt it for months. But now, with the proof of her suspicions finally laid before her, she didn't feel vindicated, or triumphant. She didn't even feel relieved. She felt numb. Sick. 

She had sat opposite him every morning. Drank coffee with him. Argued with him. Followed his orders. Covered her hands in his blood. Felt his heart thumping, desperate, in his chest. And it hadn't been him.

He had looked her in the eye and lied and lied and lied and  _ lied _ and she hadn't realised. 

He had bullied her. Belittled her. Undermined her, cut her off from family, made her think that she was the problem and she  _ hadn't realised _ . 

She was supposed to keep her crew safe, but she had put them in danger, again and again, every day, and she  _ hadn't even realised. _

And meanwhile, Gabriel was - where? Captured? Dead? How long had he waited before he'd realised that no-one was coming for him? Before he'd realised that no-one even knew he was gone?

She had failed him. Failed her Captain. Failed her friend. 

No more. The imposter would pay for what he had done.

The lights dipped momentarily, then turned red, and the sound that had become all too familiar over the last month began.

_ “Red Alert. Red Alert.” _

“Drills?” asked Doctor Trephir, looking up. 

“No,” Angharad frowned. “There's nothing scheduled--”

_ Shit. _

Angharad pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to focus over the onslaught of the alarm. 

Occam’s Razor. 

Whoever - or  _ whatever _ \- was currently controlling the  _ Buran _ , it wasn't Captain Lorca. And they had been doing their best to make sure that they weren't caught out. It was a reasonable assumption that their intentions weren't friendly, but to storm on to the bridge now and try to forcibly take them into custody, with no back-up, and no idea of what they were capable of - actually, a fairly reasonable idea, given how they dealt with the Klingons, given how they'd shrugged off near-certain death - could be catastrophic. Without support from Command, it would be tantamount to mutiny. Worse, it could endanger the whole crew. It could forfeit their only chance to find out what had happened to Captain Lorca.  

And then there was the even more pressing issue of whatever had caused them to go to red alert. It was no time for a coup.

Klingons first. Use the imposter’s skills one last time. Get the  _ Buran  _ to safety. Then deal with  _ him _ .

Angharad turned to Doctor Trephir. 

“Alright. This is what we do. Do you have a secure comms channel down here?”

“Of course.”

“Then send this to Command. All of it. Right away,” continued Angharad. “Get Admiral Cornwell.  Don't take no for an answer. Tell her you know why he's been avoiding her. She'll listen. OK?” 

Doctor Trephir nodded, and Angharad took one last look at the charts. 

“I have to go. It's with you, Doctor.”

She raced to the turbolift, the alarm still sounding throughout the ship. Her heart was pounding, but she felt calm, for the first time in months. Her mind was clear now. 

Trephir would get the word out. Admiral Cornwell would would  know what to do. And, in the meantime, Angharad would deal with the dual threats that awaited her on the bridge - the threat without, and the threat within. 

She would keep her crew safe from this imposter until they could regain command of the  _ Buran _ .

And  _ then _ , they would find the Captain. 

She could only hope they weren't too late.

*

Trephir transferred the final records across to the data card as the first torpedo struck. He willed the progress of the upload along, well aware that the first casualties would soon arrive.

Admiral Cornwell was a fellow medical professional, and her reputation for clear-thinking and practicality was almost legendary. She was the ideal person to turn to in a crisis such as this. And, although he had never been one to engage in the kind of scurrilous, indelicate scuttlebutt that the rest of the crew seemed to enjoy so much, there was no denying that she and the Captain were close. She would want to know if something had happened to him. 

Relief coursing through him, he plugged the data card into the console and booted up the comms system.

<<ACCESS DENIED>>


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, huge thanks to LizBee for an eleventh hour beta read, and for kind and wise words that made a big difference to this chapter.
> 
> Warnings for violence and mentions of blood.
> 
> This chapter also contains yet more questionable battle tactics, a shaky grasp of basic starship design, and the tears of one very sad, very sorry, fic author.

He sprinted through the corridors of deck 1, the _ Buran _ pitching wildly. 

The turbolifts were already incapacitated, but no matter - he knew the ship better than anyone, in any universe, and had long since memorised the labyrinth of ladders that would bring him to the shuttle bay. 

Timing was everything. Too soon, and his version of events would be out of sync with the evidence. Too late … well.

Destiny ran to a tight schedule.

He opened the hatch and climbed inside.

*

Angharad thumped the lift’s control panel. 

Nothing.

“Shit _ , _ ” she muttered, changing course and heading instead for the service tunnels, for the second time in a week. 

The hatch thudded shut behind her, cutting out the insistent din of the alarm. In the tunnel, evenly-spaced panels glowed red intermittently, the only indication of danger beyond their confines. 

She took a few deep breaths, focusing on the progress of her hands on the ladder rungs in front of her, doing her best to ignore the sensation of being trapped.

A couple of ladders, a few turns in the tunnels, another ladder, sharp left--

She almost ran headlong into the Captain. The Not-Captain.  _ Him. _

“Red alert, sir,” she said, breathlessly. Keep up appearances. Don't let him suspect you're on to him--

“I know.” 

“We need to get to the bridge. There's a shortcut this way--”

Angharad tried to get past him, indicating over his shoulder as she went and, in doing so, realised three things in rapid succession. 

First, he was heading  _ away  _ from the bridge. 

Second, he had a phaser rifle. 

And third, he was pointing it straight at her.

_ Shit. _

“Before you ask any stupid questions; no, this is not set to stun, and yes, I will,” he said calmly, the glow of the panel beside him casting terrible shadows across his face. “Stand aside.”

“So you can do what, exactly?” Angharad asked slowly, her eyes locked on his fingers, twitching against the trigger.

He smiled, and it made her feel sick.

“Move on to better things.”

“Look - I  _ know _ ,” said Angharad, hands spread wide to show that she was unarmed. “I know you’re not the Captain. I don’t care. Just - just put that down, help us out one more time and then we can  _ talk  _ about this, we’ll help you with whatever you need--”

The Not-Captain laughed. 

“Help me? You already are.”

The ship rocked as another torpedo struck. Lorca - not-Lorca, whoever the hell he was - fired a warning shot that burned a trail just past Angharad’s left ear. 

“You can either die in here, alone, or up there, playing the little Captain with your friends. Makes no difference to me,” he said. “What's it to be, Jones?”

There was no-one around. No-one to call for back-up. No-one to hear her. No-one to find her. 

Her duty was to the _Buran._ To the crew. They were at red alert. She had to keep them safe. 

Let him leave. Good riddance.

But without him, they might lose their only link to the Captain--

She knew what the Captain would want her to do. And hated it.

“Just - tell me one thing,” she said.

He hefted the rifle, impatient.

“Make it quick.”

“Where is Captain Lorca?”

He blinked. A deep crease appeared between his eyebrows. 

_ Oh my god, _ thought Angharad.  _ He doesn't know-- _

“He met his destiny.”

Angharad stared at him, aghast.

“Who the hell are you?”

He smirked, the phaser still aimed unwaveringly at her.

“Gabriel Lorca.”

The statement was so calm, so matter of fact, that it was like a punch to the gut. 

“You have no  _ idea _ who he is,” she managed. 

“As a matter of fact, I do, now. I know  _ exactly  _ who he is. Thanks to you. It's been a very informative stay.”

“No. Gabriel Lorca would never leave the  _ Buran _ in danger. How  _ dare _ you - how dare you even say his name--” 

Before she could react, he had her by the throat, pinned to the bulkhead, the barrel of the rifle screwed against her jaw.

“ _ His _ name?” growled Not-Lorca, his grip tightening. “Your  _ Captain _ squandered it. Dribbling blind loyalty to your Federation. Content to rot while they grew fat on his work.  _ His name?  _ No. I'm making sure that  _ my  _ name goes down in history.”

Angharad struggled for air, her chest on fire, blood pounding in her ears, but it was no use - this was it, this was how she died, alone with a madman in a  _ fucking _ Jefferies tube--

The overhead lights flickered and the ship's artificial gravity cut out - just for a moment, but long enough for him to lose his footing and his grip with it. He was flung against the opposite wall, the rifle clattering from his hands, and Angharad dropped to the floor like a rag doll, oxygen flooding back into her lungs.

She saw him start towards the weapon and, still reeling, no time to think, struck out a poorly-timed kick that somehow still managed to clip him on the knee, sending him sprawling. She scrambled to her feet, but he was faster, already there. Angharad ducked the first punch, blocked the second, but failed to stop the third, fourth, fifth--

If she hadn't known better, if she hadn’t seen the charts, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was  _ trying to kill her, _ she could have sworn she was sparring with the Captain. Same stance, same infuriating mix of fighting styles - her uppercut caught him square on the jaw - same blind spots--

Her elbow connected, hard, with his chest, right where the  _ Buran  _ had tried to destroy him only a few days before. Even the ship had known, rejected him like an infected skin graft,  _ even the ship _ had seen the truth before she had--

He stumbled back with a cry and, his attention diverted, Angharad dived to snatch up the fallen rifle. She fumbled with the settings, wishing she'd paid attention to the Captain's lectures about the importance of keeping up her weapons training, wishing she hadn't laughed whenever he suggested spending time in the rifle range, wishing she hadn't been so bloody complacent about ever needing to use anything bigger than a sidearm, because then she might remember how to  _ set the damn thing to stun-- _

His boot slammed into the side of her head, and the whole world turned sideways as she skidded along the floor, into the bulkhead. 

She watched the rifle spin away from her. 

Watched his hand retrieve it. 

Watched his boots move closer, until they filled her line of vision entirely.

_ Shit. _

She managed to lift her head enough to look at him.

“I saved your life,” she croaked. 

“Well, we all make mistakes.”

He pulled the trigger.

There was silence for a moment.

He prodded her body with the barrel of the rifle. Her head lolled back.

Done. 

His breath came in ragged spurts, exhausted, furious. 

He should have just shot her straight away. Instead, he'd let her goad him. Wasted energy. Wasted time. 

A few months ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. That was this place again. Creeping under his skin. Making him soft. Making him lose sight of what was  _ real _ .

God, it was dangerous here. 

He had to remain vigilant. Had to  _ get home. _

_ Home _ \--

The thought was a jolt to his senses. He turned on his heel, continuing ever deeper into the tunnel. Reached the next ladder, slung the rifle over his shoulder, stooped to grab the first rung and--

\--was brought up short by the pain in his chest.

That  _ bitch. _

His back against the bulkhead, he slid down to the floor. He pressed the back of his head against the cold metal, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily.

Too much time had been wasted already. But he would have to rest.

*

“I go away for five damn minutes, and everything falls to pieces.”

Angharad opened one eye slowly. Lifted her head a fraction, her neck too sore to manage much more than that, to see who had spoken. 

There he was. Gabriel bloody Lorca. Leaning against the bulkhead, a mug of coffee in his hand, watching her with a faintly amused expression. 

She sagged.

“I'm dead, aren't I?” she asked, slightly muffled, her cheek pressed against the floor.

“Not dead,” he said. “But your condition would elicit a rather impressive ‘hmmm’ from Trephir.”

“Oh. Good.” She dragged herself up until she was half-sitting, half-slumped. “For a minute there I thought I'd have to spend all eternity drinking coffee with you.” 

“Would that be so bad?”

“It wasn't looking promising. You didn't even bring me a mug. Sir.”

She shifted position slightly against the bulkhead, attempting to brace herself against it and stand up, but it made her feel like her brain was slapping against the inside of her skull, and so she abandoned the idea.

Once the dizziness had passed, she asked, “Are  _ you _ dead?” as though enquiring about how he'd spent his weekend. 

He shrugged.

“I hope not.”

A little unnerved by the shaking of her hand, Angharad jerked a thumb down the corridor.

“Friend of yours?” she asked.

“That would be a ‘no’.” 

She closed her eyes, trying to conserve energy, the effort of talking draining her reserves. 

“What did he  _ want _ ?” she muttered.

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Something nagged at the back of her mind, but her attempt to focus on it went about as well as her attempt to stand up. She shook her head. “Maybe.”

“What could you do about it right now, even if it did matter?”

“Go after him. Stop him.”

“How, exactly? Collapse on him aggressively?”

“Well, that’s one plan.”

“It's a terrible plan, Jones.”

Wincing, Angharad stretched out her legs in front of her and loosened the collar of her jacket. She sighed.

“Permission to swear, sir?”

“It's your hallucination.”

“I think I’ve fucked up monumentally.”

“I don't know about that. But I am a little offended you thought I could be  _ that _ much of an asshole.”

“Come on. I was defending your honour just a minute ago.” She scrutinised his face, trying to work out exactly what it was that she'd missed. “Are you  _ sure _ you don't have a twin?” 

“I'd have told you if you'd ever bothered to ask.”

“Never occured to me. Never occured to me that you had any family, really. I presumed you'd just sort of spontaneously appeared on the bridge one day, fully formed.”

“Like that son of a bitch, you mean?” he asked, nodding after the other him.

“Something like that.” She leant back, tired. Everything hurt. “We should have talked more.”

“You talk enough for both of us.”

She pressed an experimental hand against the side of her head. It felt sticky, and she was vaguely interested to note, when she inspected her fingers, that they were covered in blood. It didn't seem to matter very much. She watched the colour change from red to purple to black and back again as she turned her hand in the light. 

“Sorry, sir,” she said eventually, tears prickling her eyes. “I’ve let you down, haven't I?”

“Only if you don't get your ass back to the bridge.  _ Concentrate _ , Jones. Our new friend wants to jump ship, and I don't get the impression he spooks too easily. Whatever's going on out there, it's bad news. Who's in command right now?”

“... Oh.”

“ _ Oh,” _ he echoed, exasperated. “Look - you've got one Captain MIA, one fake-Captain AWOL, and a First Officer hallucinating in a Jefferies tube. Of the three, you're the least-worst option.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Aren't you supposed to say something profound and encouraging?”

“The  _ Buran  _ is in danger. On your feet, Captain Jones.”

As rallying cries went, it was pretty good, actually. 

“Any chance of a hand?”

He gestured at himself apologetically.

“Sorry. Hallucination.”

“Fat lot of good you are,” grumbled Angharad, heaving herself awkwardly into a crouching position and then walking her hands up the cool metal of the bulkhead, a trail of blood marking her progress, until, finally she was standing. Swaying slightly, even with one hand still pressed against the wall, anchoring her upright, but standing.

Captain Lorca nodded.

“Well, that's a start.”

“What will you do now?” she asked him, not quite ready to say goodbye, fully aware of precisely how ridiculous that was.

“Finish my coffee.”

“No, I mean - wherever you are?”

“You know me. Make friends. Keep my head down.”

“Piss people off and get yourself into more trouble, you mean?”

He raised his mug in acknowledgement. 

“Worked for me so far.”

He looked up, suddenly alert.

“What is it?” Angharad asked.

“Evasive manoeuvres,” he muttered. “You need to go. Right now.”

“But--"

“ _ Right now, _ Jones. That's an order,” he said sharply. “Send a team after him if you must, but  _ get to the bridge.” _

Angharad turned to look back down the corridor, becoming gradually aware of the glowing red lights and the distant, persistent whine of the  _ Buran _ ’s engines.

She looked back at the Captain.

“We'll find you,” she said. “I promise, Gabriel.”

“Crew first. We'll figure the rest out later.”

Crew--

She had to get back to the bridge. 

The ladder wasn't far away, but even so it felt like an age before she reached it. She hauled herself up the first couple of rungs.

Angharad glanced over her shoulder, one last time, just in case, but there was no one there.

She burst through the doors of the bridge, straight into chaos.

Smoke emitted from flickering consoles, snaking around the crew, the air thick and acrid. Above it all, the shriek of the alarms stabbed like a thousand knives through her skull.

“Where’s--” Xhao stopped abruptly, taking in the state of Angharad. “Oh my god--”

“Bridge to Security,” Angharad yelled over the comms. “Lock down shuttlebays, apprehend Captain Lorca and remand him in the brig, pending trial for desertion. You should consider him armed and dangerous. Do not approach him without back-up.”

That would be enough until they heard from Command--

It was only then that she looked up at the viewscreen and realised just what had sent that bastard running.

Three Klingon raiders. One already bearing down on them hard, the other two regrouping.

“Status report!” she yelled.

“Heavy damage portside, long-range scanners are down--"

“Warp drive is non-responsive!”

“Fire on deck 5!”

“Dispatch fire crews--”

“Shields at 30 percent! _ ” _

“Divert power from all non-essential sources, just keep them holding--”

It was too loud and too much and her head was agony and she  _ couldn't think _ \--

_ Concentrate, Jones. _

They were totally outgunned, but maybe with a little help they could outfly the raiders--

“Hazell - evasive pattern gamma 6!” she yelled above the roar. “Try and get some clear distance between us and them! Graav - focus torpedoes on their engines!”

She gripped the arms of the command chair tight. Prayed it would be enough.

*

There were voices, faint, on the other side of the hatch.

“... _indicate he's_ _here somewhere. Spread out, maintain visual…”_

They were looking for him. How did they know--

He checked his rifle.

_ Stun. _

That  _ fucking _ \--

No. No problem. Just another of Fate’s little jokes. It would make things more interesting, at least. 

He pressed his back to the wall, listening closely. Re-adjusted the weapon’s settings. 

_ Kill. _

_ * _

The crew ducked as the overhead lights blew, sparks falling like raindrops on the bridge.

“Xhao, emergency channel - hail anything that isn't Klingon!”

“Channel open!”

“Mayday, mayday,” Angharad said, the words hardly feeling real. “This is Comm- Captain Jones of the USS  _ Buran.  _ We are under heavy bombardment from three Klingon vessels. I repeat - we are under bombardment from three Klingon vessels. Requesting immediate assistance!”

There was no reply.

Command wouldn't have sent them so close to Klingon space without a plan. Without back-up. Without hope--

As another torpedo struck, Angharad signalled to Xhao to keep trying.

_ Command _ wouldn't have sent them here at all--

Silence.

*

He heaved the body clear of the escape pod door, gritting his teeth at the pain in his chest. 

He had been slow, his injuries impeding him far more than he had expected, and Landry had trained her team well. Surprisingly well. They had almost caught him.

Unfortunately for them, he had destiny on his side. Five officers who believed in a fair fight were never going to pose much of a problem. 

At least they had succeeded in making him look as though he'd gone down with a struggle, he mused, brushing away blood from a deep cut to the side of his head. Self-inflicted wounds never looked quite right, not if you knew what you were looking for.

Battling against all odds. Faced with an impossible dilemma. The bleeding-heart Starfleet Captain to the bitter end. If that didn't tug at their precious ideals, nothing would. 

The shuttlebay lockdown had been a nice touch, he had to give her that. Shame it was such an obvious move. The sequence of pre-programmed commands that he had engaged before leaving the bridge had already taken that into account.

Inside the pod at last, shuttlebay doors disengaged, he set a course towards a supply route just across sector lines. Close enough that he was unlikely to run into any real trouble en route. Far enough that he could win yet more sympathy by feigning dehydration and delirium. 

The pod juddered into life and, shuttlebay forcefield cleared, he called up the vessel’s command screen. 

Ran the second part of the programme that he had rigged for exactly this moment.

Punched in his command code.

Time to go.

*

The message on screen turned Angharad’s stomach to lead.

_ >>AUTO-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE INITIATED<< _

“Oh,  _ shit, _ ” she breathed. 

“Captain,” Hazell started, panicked, “What the  _ hell’s _ \--”

She sprinted to the command chair, frantically typing in her override code, again and again and again, willing away the error message displayed.  

_ >>COMMAND CODE INCORRECT<< _

It was impossible. Two authorisation codes were required to activate the sequence. It wasn't standard procedure, not on a Cardenas-class ship - it hadn't been the case on the  _ Yeager -  _ but they had agreed, years ago, that if they were ever faced with the decision to destroy the  _ Buran _ , they would never make it alone. It would be the Captain and her. Together. Two of them to start the process.

_ >>COMMAND CODE INCORRECT<< _

_ >>COMMAND CODE INCORRECT<< _

Just one of them to stop it.

_ >>COMMAND CODE INCORRECT<< _

_ >>COMMAND CODE INCORRECT<< _

_ >>COMMAND CODE INCORRECT<< _

“Bridge to Security,” she yelled. “ _ Where _ is Captain Lorca?”

There was no response. 

_ You can either die in here, alone, or up there, playing the little Captain with your friends…  _

Heart pounding, a sick feeling of realisation growing in her stomach, she stumbled back across the bridge to her workstation and called up the escape pod manifest. 

She gripped the screen tightly, hardly able to believe what she was seeing.

Pod 3 was missing. Every single one of the remaining pods had been disabled.

He had gone. 

He had left them to die.

_ Three minutes, forty-five seconds.  _

“Captain--?” 

Angharad looked up at Hazell, but could hardly see him through her tears. She shook her head.

“I can't stop it. I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so,  _ so _ sorry.”

Another barrage rocked the  _ Buran.  _

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. After everything, this couldn't be it. It couldn't be as pointless as this. This couldn't be how it all ended--

“We're being hailed!” shouted Xhao. 

A sob of relief rose in Angharad’s throat. The  _ Buran’ _ s transporters were shot to pieces, but maybe the ship hailing them could beam at least some of them to safety, maybe they had shuttles, maybe--

“It's … it's a distress signal.” 

Maybe not.

“Where?” asked Angharad hoarsely. 

In response, Xhao brought the image up onto the viewscreen. Angharad watched through bleary eyes.

A freighter. Federation insignia. Medical supply ship, from the looks of things. It had already taken heavy damage from the two Klingon warships circling it. There was a small colony a subsector away - Priors World, Angharad remembered vaguely, the memory bubbling up from somewhere underneath all the horror; it must have been headed there. The  _ Buran  _ had been dispatched there, years earlier, to bring supplies and help dig wells. The place was barely more than a handful of families. Farmers. No doubt they'd be next.

They wouldn't stand a chance. 

She had been too late. Too late to see the truth. Too late to understand. Too late to save the crew, too late to save the  _ Buran,  _ too late for the freighter, for the colony, she had always been  _ too late-- _

No. Not too late.

Angharad glanced at the timer.

_ Two minutes, forty seconds.  _

It was nothing. No time at all.

It was all they would need.

“Graav - do we have anything left?” she asked. He looked at her, briefly confused, before realisation dawned.

“We've got enough,” he said. 

It was too late to save the crew. She saw that now, though it broke her heart, tore her to pieces like the ship around her. 

But she still had time left-- 

Angharad nodded. 

\-- still had a handful of torpedoes--

Straightened up.

\-- still had the  _ Buran-- _

“Open a shipwide hail.” 

_ \-- still had a choice.  _

She took a deep breath. 

“This is Captain Jones--” 

_ “Hull breach, deck 4. _ ”

“-- We are - we are facing our final moments. I am more sorry than I know how to say. But the  _ Buran  _ has one final mission to complete, and I intend to see that through--”

_ “Hull breach, deck 5.” _

“--I will not order you, but I ask you, if you can, to join me this last time. I want you all to know that it has been the - the  _ greatest _ honour and privilege--"

_ “Hull breach, deck 6.” _

“-- to serve with you all. I know Captain Lorca felt the same way.”

_ “Hull breach, deck 7.” _

“He would be as proud of you all as I am right now. Whatever happens next, I just - I just wanted you all to know that.”

She closed the hail. Turned to face the bridge.

“You don't have to stay.”

There was a pause.

Then Graav snorted.

“I've seen you shoot,” he said. “I'll stick around.”

“Didn't have any plans anyway,” said Hazell.

“No place I'd rather be,” said Xhao.

Angharad felt her breath catch.

“Alright then,” she managed. “Jak - how about one last spin?”

Lieutenant Hazell grinned.

“Thought you'd never ask, boss.”

“Then take us in. Close enough to lure away the raiders.” She didn't need to finish the thought. 

Close enough to lure away the raiders. Enough distance that the freighter wouldn't be caught in the blast. 

“Aye, Captain.”

“Sara - open a channel. Let them know the cavalry’s coming.”

_ One minute, fifty seconds. _

It wasn't a particularly elegant plan, Angharad knew. It wasn't even a particularly good plan. But right now, here, it might just be enough.

*

He watched from the escape pod’s tiny screen in disbelief.

The  _ Buran  _ was heading straight towards the freighter, straight towards two more raiders, with the first three still in pursuit, still raining down fire on them. 

That would be Jones, dithering while the seconds dripped away, myopic and indecisive to the last. She had died the same way in his universe. Badly.

Almost the entire port side of the saucer section had been ripped open like a tin of rations, exposing the guts of the  _ Buran, _ skeletal decks and sparks and smoke. As he watched, another panel peeled away from her plating and was flung off, spinning endlessly through the stars.

Just a ship.

They would never have stood a chance, not even with all the benefit of his experience. All he had done was to hasten the inevitable--

Then he realised.

The  _ Buran _ was speeding up.

Jones wasn’t panicking.

She had turned the ship into a  _ weapon.  _

*

As they began to accelerate, the  _ Buran’ _ s engines screamed with sounds like a wounded animal, as if every move was tearing her apart. Angharad couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as she willed the ship on. 

_ Come on, old girl. Just once more. Once more, and then you can rest… _

Right on cue, the raiders turned, away from the besieged freighter, towards their new, more interesting target.

The ship lurched.

“Starboard 2 is down - attempting to stabilise!” yelled Hazell, over the roar of the engines.

“Almost there!” Angharad shouted. “Graav - get ready!” 

_ Come on, just a little more, just a little further…  _

The raiders grew larger and larger on the viewscreen.

Maybe he would be the one to kill them--

_ One minute, twenty seconds. _

\-- but he didn't get to decide how they died.

“Graav -  _ now!”  _ yelled Angharad. 

The  _ Buran _ ’s torpedoes struck the aft of the first of the approaching raiders, lighting up the viewscreen like fireworks. 

_ “Brace!” _

A return volley slammed into the  _ Buran _ , and the ship suddenly swung to starboard like she was on a hinge.

“ _ Shit _ \- starboard 1 is non-responsive!” Hazell shouted, his hands a blur on the controls as he attempted to return them to something approaching an even keel. “Port nacelles are overloading. She’s not got much left, Captain!”

“We don't need much!” Angharad yelled, gripping the command chair for support. “Just a little more!”

_ One minute.  _

The ship shuddered. The engines choked up a final, dying breath.

For a few moments the  _ Buran _ drifted, turning gently, rudderless, until at last she slowed to a halt.

“That's it,” Hazell stared at the controls, bereft. “She's gone.”

“Let her rest.”

_ Forty-five seconds. _

The raiders had stopped firing. It wasn't necessary any more.

“We're being boarded! Hostiles on deck 2!”

“Good,” said Angharad. “Then we're close enough.”

She turned to face the viewscreen through the smoke, the raiders looming large under the relentless countdown of the timer.

She thought about Nico, and his mum, and the look on her face as her world crashed down around her. Wondered who would tell their families. Whether they would cry when they read the crew's files. Thought about Ellen, safe at least, far away from all of this on the  _ Discovery. _ About Gabriel, lost, alone, but not for long, not now that Command knew the truth. About Dylan, pretending to be asleep, drawing spaceships up in his bedroom decorated with stars. About Harri, and how there never would have been enough time, not even if they’d both lived to be a hundred years old, but how all the same Angharad would have given anything for five minutes more, two minutes,  _ thirty seconds _ … 

_ Twenty-nine seconds. _

_ “Warning. Warp core overload imminent.” _

“Unidentified freighter, this is the USS  _ Buran _ . I’d suggest that you clear the area immediately. We'll take it from here.”

_ “USS  _ Buran _ , do you require assis--" _

“Just - go,” said Angharad, feeling her voice break. “And godspeed.”

She switched off the channel. Watched as the freighter began to pull away, slowly, but steadily, towards safety.

She smiled.

One by one, the bridge crew moved to join her. She looked around at them, feeling her heart swell with pride and love, tears hot on her cheeks. Scientists. Explorers. Misfits. Crew.  _ Family _ .

“I’m glad we got to say goodbye,” she said, although she wasn’t sure anyone could hear her any more. “At least we had time for that.” 

A calm descended on the bridge, in spite of the noise, in spite of the smoke that curled around them, in spite of almost all logic. 

They watched as the seconds fell away. Whatever was next, they faced it together.

_ Ten seconds. _

A final thought filled Angharad’s mind. It was reassuring, in a strange sort of way.

_ The Captain always goes down with their ship. _

There was a flash of light, and then everything went black.

*

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He kept his eyes closed as the door of the escape pod was forced open. Slumped forward against the controls. Slowed his breathing.

_ Showtime. _

“It's the Captain!”

Hands gripped his shoulders, pulled him upright.

“He's alive!”

“Crew…” he muttered.

“Stay still - you've been badly hurt--"

“Crew--"

As the sedative took hold, he heard a voice, shaky, close to his ear.

“You saved our lives.  _ Thank you _ .”

He smiled, and then everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.


	8. Epilogue

**_Epilogue_ **

_ STARBASE 27, JANUARY 2256. _

 

_ 21:03. Transporter Room 4, Starbase 27. _

“Sorry, sir, it’s like I said. No-one's going anywhere just now. Storm.” The transporter technician shrugged apologetically. 

Gabriel groaned. It had been a long, difficult couple of days, and he wanted nothing more than to get back to his own ship. Another night on Starbase 27, and the associated risk of being required to engage in yet more small talk - especially with the young woman who had made a beeline for him at the reception and introduced herself as the author of an upcoming book about Tarsus IV - was not a prospect he particularly relished. 

A run, a shower and a dinner that would probably taste like bananas sounded ideal at this point.

He grumbled his way back out of the transporter room and flipped open his communicator again, more out of habit than any real sense of hope _. _

“Captain Lorca to the  _ Buran _ .”

He was rewarded with yet more static.

Gabriel berated himself inwardly. He should have made contact with the  _ Buran _ as soon as he'd seen the forecast, to warn them they would likely have difficulty reaching the base. But he hadn't anticipated the storm growing so severe that communications, let alone the entire transporter system, would be shut down. Now, it was over an hour after the scheduled rendezvous, and he could well imagine Jones’s reaction when he finally made it back. She would relish the chance to make fun of him for being late. Wouldn't let him live it down.

He sighed.

“Captain Lorca to the  _ Buran _ ,” he tried again.

This time, there was a response. 

A distress signal.

_ “... dayzzzzzzzzzzz ... ssssshones … USSssssssssssssssssschhhhh…” _

The audio was faint, and broken, but it was unmistakably Jones.

“...  _ zzzzzzzzpeat … requestcccccchhhhhh--” _

The transmission cut out abruptly.

Pure instinct propelled Gabriel back to the transporter room, and he arrived without even remembering the journey there.

The technician, however, was unmoved. 

“There's nothing showing on our systems, sir--"

“I don't give a  _ damn _ about your systems - I know what I heard. Get me back there  _ right now!”  _

“It's probably just a phonic echo, sir,” the young lieutenant said, in a tone that was intended to appease, but merely served to rile Gabriel even further. “Happens all the time in these storms.”

The communicator chirped flatly. The signal was already lost.

“I know what I heard,” he repeated quietly.

“Sorry, sir. Orders. No-one in or out.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth. He clearly wasn't going to get anywhere like this. A new tactic was required.

_ Concentrate, Lorca. _

“Alright, Lieutenant,” he said, after a few deep breaths had returned him to a reasonable impression of calm. “I won't ask you to disobey orders. But will you at least try to locate my ship?”

“I don't--"

“Just - reassure me that they're out there. Nothing more than that.”

The technician nodded, relieved to have been let off the hook.

“Of course, sir.” Seemingly oblivious to Gabriel's impatience, he tapped, painfully slowly, at the controls. “Now then … let me see … yes! Here we are. Signal’s not the cleanest, but--"

Gabriel leant across him, and had jammed on the transporter beam and started sprinting towards the plate before the lieutenant could even open his mouth to launch a protest. 

“Stop \- sir! _Stop_!” he heard the technician yell after him, too late.

He leapt on to the platform as the beam energised.

This was a terrible idea--

The beam enveloped Gabriel, and he felt a lurch, followed by an enormous pressure in his chest. He screwed his eyes shut against blinding flashes of light but could do nothing to protect himself from the screeching sound that threatened to split his skull in two. Something was wrong, very wrong - he was going to end up like one of those poor bastards in the stories, turned inside out, a steaming mess of sentient entrails--

He landed in a heap on the floor of the  _ Buran _ ’s transporter room, the breath knocked out of his lungs, and just about managed to crawl clear of the platform before throwing up. He reached out a hand for the wall and hoisted himself to his feet, legs shaking as he fought back another wave of nausea. 

His head was swimming, and the ringing in his ears was like an alarm--

No. Not just  _ like _ an alarm. 

The ship was at red alert.

The turbolifts were incapacitated, but no matter - he knew the  _ Buran _ better than anyone, knew every nut and bolt that held her together, knew every turn in the labyrinth of ladders that would bring him to the bridge. 

A couple of ladders, a few turns in the tunnels, another ladder, sharp left, through the hatch--

Gabriel burst through the doors to the bridge. 

He stopped dead in his tracks. 

The viewscreen was filled with a vessel the size of a city, and it was bearing down on them, driving them closer and closer to the storm.

“What the hell is that?” yelled Gabriel, staggering across the bridge as the ship swung wildly in an evasive manoeuvre. No-one heard his question, or if they did, they were quickly distracted by a deafening roar and a lurch as the city-ship’s torpedoes struck the  _ Buran _ .

There was no sign of the base anywhere - he must have passed straight through the storm, that would explain why the journey had been so rough - but even given the furious clouds ahead it seemed impossible that their scanners could have missed  _ this _ \--

All systems had been sent haywire, their proximity to the storm and the damage inflicted on them proving a deadly mix. 

The viewscreen cut out intermittently, and with each flicker the city-ship grew larger and larger.

“Fire in decks 4 and 5—"

“Shields down to 20%—"

“Targetting systems are offline--"

“I've lost navigation--"

“Scanners are down--"

“Xhao, open an emergency channel!” shouted Gabriel, still trying to process the barrage of information being thrown at him. 

“Re-routing power from all non-essential functions--”

“Xhao - emergency channel, _ now _ !” Gabriel shouted again. But his Communications Officer paid him little attention and he realised, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she was seated at the wrong console--

There was no time to question that now. Still standing, just, Gabriel flipped open the controls on his chair and engaged the emergency channel himself, bracing himself against the impact of another direct hit. 

“Mayday, mayday - this is Captain Lorca, USS  _ Buran,  _ requesting immediate backup. We are under heavy bombardment from an unidentified vessel. Repeat, requesting all available--”

Another torpedo struck, sending the  _ Buran  _ reeling. Gabriel staggered backwards, losing his footing completely, and struck his head hard against the side of Jones’s workstation. 

“Captain!” Landry hauled him roughly to his feet. “You need to leave  _ right now _ !”

“What’re you talking ‘bout?” Gabriel replied groggily, shaking her off. “‘M not going anywhere--” 

Landry shouted something in reply, something about an Empire, something about being needed, but it made no sense and in any case was lost beneath the maelstrom of noise on the bridge. Gabriel looked around, dizzy, wiping away the blood that was dripping down his forehead, suddenly realising something else.

“Where’s Jones?”

A look of confusion crossed Landry’s face, and she opened her mouth to respond before a fresh shout diverted her attention.

“We’re being boarded!”

“Defensive positions!” yelled Landry. She tossed him a phaser and he wondered vaguely, too late, why everyone was out of uniform, and why the hell they were all  _ armed _ - _ - _

Gabriel took aim as the first of the hostile forces materialised on the bridge, feeling a grim satisfaction as he managed to stun one - two - three - in quick succession, but they kept coming in ever greater numbers, and there was little he could do to prevent them from overpowering his crew--

There was a flash of red light, and Gabriel's vision swam before everything went black. 

*

Captain Gabriel Lorca, USS  _ Buran _ , current location unknown, was a man who liked routine. It was useful. Gave the day structure. Helped him retain what was left of his dignity. Stopped him from going completely mad. 

Unfortunately, his captors had worked that out fairly quickly. They did their best to disrupt things wherever possible. The lights in his cell - painfully bright, especially when compared to the gloom of the corridor beyond the containment field holding him - were switched on at irregular intervals. Food, such as it was, always barely edible and never  _ quite _ enough to stop the dull ache of hunger in his stomach, arrived, or didn’t arrive, according to an indecipherable schedule. Beatings were doled out for breaking rules that changed from one day to the next. 

Gabriel was familiar with tactics like these from survival training, all those years ago at the Academy, and understood exactly what they were trying to achieve. 

And so, he adapted. He developed a new routine. 

Time could be measured, approximately, by the growth of his beard, or his fingernails, or the changing colour of his bruises. He slept when he could, rested when he couldn’t. When the lights went on, whenever that was, he rose, paced his cell to stretch his legs. Push ups - not too many, given that there was no knowing when he would next be fed - kept other muscles busy. Ensured that his bed, pathetic as it was, remained immaculately tidy. Performed morning ablutions as best he could, bent almost double over the tiny sink in the corner of the room, any sense of shame at how visible he was through the wall of the containment field having long since dissipated. Shook most of the water from himself, shivered the rest of it off. Chewed his fingernails when they got too long, spat the pieces down the toilet. Started to chart the progress of their growth again.

At a conservative estimate, it had been four months of this. Four months of near silence, outside of the impenetrable questions of the interrogations he was treated to every now and again. Four months trying to glean any clue as to his whereabouts. Four months since he had last seen the stars.

Four months. Any rescue mission would have been stood down long ago. Protocol. Kat wouldn’t be so sentimental as to break it. Not even for him. And she would be right.

So. The cavalry weren't about to ride into view. If he was going to get out of here, wherever that was, it would have to be on his own two feet. Or in a box.

Gabriel wasn't claustrophobic. Couldn't be, given how much of his life he had spent within the confined space of starships. But there were days here when it felt as though the walls were closing in ever more tightly around him, until there was only the space inside his own head left. And there wasn't much good to be found there, either.

In the beginning, he had begged them to tell him what had happened to his crew. Pleaded. Bargained. But they seemed to delight in withholding that information from him.

He knew, logically, that the likelihood that they had survived was slim. That thing, whatever it was, the city-ship, had been like nothing he had ever seen before. But the fact that no-one would tell him for certain gave him - not hope, not exactly, but something to anchor himself to.

Perhaps they had been captured too. He buried that thought deep. The howls of agony that emanated from the other cells were awful enough in the abstract, unbearable when assigned the faces and names of his crew. 

No. 

They had got away. They had survived.

Today, food arrived - later than yesterday, he was reasonably certain, but earlier than the day before that, if it had been a day at all - and he heaved himself to his feet, familiar with the drill by now, the one bit of routine he could be sure of. He turned to face the back wall, hands above his head, palms flat against the cold metal. Behind him, the containment field was lowered long enough for the masked guard, rifle trained squarely at Gabriel’s head, to toss a bowl - no cutlery, of course - of whatever they had deigned to feed him into the middle of the cell. Once the hum of the field was restored, Gabriel turned and squatted to inspect the bowl, dipping an experimental fingertip into its greyish contents.

“Hey,” he called, addressing the back of the guard's head. “There's been a mistake. I ordered the chicken.”

The guard showed no indication of having heard him.

“No?” Gabriel asked, settling down to his mystery meal. “Come on. This is some of my best material.”

The guard remained impassive. 

“Suit yourself. Jones never liked my jokes, either.”

It was strange. Gabriel had never been one for small talk. Could never see the point of it. Would do almost anything to avoid it, back in his other life, before this. But now, here, he found himself speaking just to prove to himself that he still could.  Just to reassure himself that at least some of the sounds that came out of his mouth were still human.

When he slept, if he slept, he dreamed about the  _ Buran _ . 

The best dreams brought little respite. They were gone too quickly, only serving to throw his current situation into ever more harsh relief. 

The worst dreams always ended in the same way. His finger on the button that destroyed them all. The screams of his crew in his ears as they were engulfed in flames until at last he woke, drenched in sweat, to realise that the screams were his.  

Tonight's dream - today's dream, this morning's, who knew what time it was, it hardly mattered anyway - was particularly vivid.

He was on the  _ Buran _ again, and a party was in full swing.

His drink was a violent shade of green and everyone was in uniform except for him, he never could understand the rules for these events, and there were far too many examples of what Jones would call ‘ill-advised snogging’ which he did his best to ignore, but made a mental note to ensure that condoms were available at strategic points between the recreation room and crew quarters, because if there was going to be _fraternisation_ it might as well be safe - and Tasini had mixed his bourbon with cola again, disobeying a direct order, while Trephir was gesticulating furiously about health and safety protocol 7.8.something-or-other, but the music was thumping so heavily that Gabriel could pretend not to hear him- _-_

Then suddenly he realised that they weren't on board the _Buran_ at all - they were standing in the pit of an amphitheatre, and the only two spectators in the stands were Kat and _Balayna,_ beautiful, impassive, disappointed, he would always disappoint them, over and over and over again, but he wanted nothing more than for them both to come and join him in the sweaty mess of the party, see how many protocols they could break, see how far Jones’s eyebrows would rise - and at the same time that he was with his crew in the pit he was also _above_ them all, looking down from a podium on high, reading from a script that he knew all the words to, his voice bland, emotionless, but only he could hear what he was saying because the music was still playing and it was _too loud_ \--

_ “... survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the Federation. Therefore I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered. Signed: Gabriel Lorca, Captain of the USS  _ Buran _.” _

\-- and he screamed at himself to stop, all the way from the pit up to the podium, as he watched himself watching himself typing in his command code and a thousand phaser cannons opened fire on them--

Gabriel woke, tangled in his thin bedsheet, completely soaked in what he could only hope was sweat, made it to the toilet, just, and threw up what little food he had eaten that day.

He slumped back in the darkness, one arm still hooked over the toilet bowl, the metal of the cell wall cool against his skin.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don't let them hear you. 

It took a moment for Gabriel to recognise the next sound, distant as it was, as an explosion.

A commotion. Sounds of phaser fire, growing closer.

Then silence.

The lights went on, bright. Too bright.

Footsteps approached. Stopped outside his cell.

“So. It's true.”

Shielding his eyes against the light, Gabriel squinted at the newcomers.

Found a familiar face among them.

“... Graav?” 

He hauled himself to his feet, suddenly shaky, overcome with a mixture of sheer exhaustion and relief. After all this time--

Gabriel realised three things in rapid succession. 

First, Graav did not look pleased to see him.

Second, he had a phaser rifle.

And third, he was pointing it right at him.

“Graav..?”

The Tellarite pulled the trigger.

*

The next few days - mere hours, perhaps, it was hard to tell - passed in a blur. 

Gabriel was dragged in front of someone they called the Prophet, a Vulcan whose face he was sure he half-recognised. He could do little to protest as his thoughts were ripped from him in a dizzying rush that left him exhausted and trembling.

The Prophet -  _ Sarek,  _ he remembered now - stood up and addressed the watching group.

“Bring him food.”

“But--"

“This is not the Terran.”

“Then who?”

“He is Gabriel Lorca. But he is not guilty of Lorca's crimes. He is … another.”

With the Prophet's help, Gabriel began to piece together what had happened to him. 

He had heard the stories, of course. They all had. Alternative universes. Parallel worlds. But that was all they were. Stories to frighten green cadets. An impossibility. 

And yet, here he stood. Incontrovertible, terrifying proof of their existence. 

_ Lost _ .

He shared a face with another Gabriel Lorca. A fugitive hunted by a bloodthirsty regime. A would-be despot who had committed atrocities beyond all imagination. He was out there somewhere, evading all detection. The lists of his crimes made Gabriel feel sick.

Gabriel wondered whether it would be murder or suicide, to kill this other him. He resolved not to let it bother him if he ever tracked him down. Either way, it would be a good deed.

There were other familiar faces in the files the Prophet showed him. Jones. Landry. Pippa. Kat. Twisted, nightmarish caricatures of the people he knew. 

He found that he couldn't finish reading about them, his eyes too blurred by tears.

They let him rest after that. Gave him something that took away the dreams. He slept for days before he woke to find his wounds patched up and the door unlocked.

He wasn't a prisoner, not anymore, but with nowhere else to go, far away from home, far away anything that made sense, he stayed. Became a defacto member of the Fire Wolf’s rebellion.

Slowly, as the weeks passed, his strength began to return. He helped where he could around the camp, although there were plenty who made it clear that his assistance was not welcome. Began to help train new recruits, taught them hand-to-hand combat and survival skills, forgave the fact that their blows fell on him far harder than any of the other instructors. Found himself in charge of training. Put in place a new programme to ensure they were well-equipped to face what came next. Earned trust. Earned a code name. _ Fallen Angel.  _ Learned to like it. It reminded him that he was from somewhere else. Warned him against what he could become.  

Finally, he earned his own command. A cell of rebels.

They were due to ship out in the morning. 06:00 hours.

Gabriel had never been able to sleep well the night before a mission. He left his quarters - the few belongings he had acquired already packed - and walked through the dusk, along the edge of the camp. Found a spot with a good view of the stars. 

A noise from behind him made him start and reach for his phaser.

He lowered his weapon as the figure came into view.

“I heard a disturbance and thought I should investigate,” said Trephir, stepping forward.

“No disturbance. Just me.”

“So I see.”

The Prophet had assigned Graav and Trephir to Gabriel's cell. His logic seemed to be that as they had worked well together in another universe, they would find a way to work well together here. Gabriel had been delighted. Graav and Trephir remained unconvinced. But the Prophet was very rarely wrong. 

Trephir watched him closely, still wary after all these months.

“You should rest,” he said at last.

“I am.”

“Hmmm.”

Gabriel couldn't suppress a chuckle. Some things were clearly the same in every universe.

Trephir reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a small hipflask. He passed it to Gabriel.

“For the cold,” he said, brusquely.

Gabriel nodded his thanks and took a swig.  _ An acquired taste.  _ That was about the best thing that could be said about its contents. But it was warming, and the gesture was so unexpectedly kind that Gabriel found he didn't mind too much. He held out the hipflask, attempting to return it, but the Andorian shook his head.  _ Keep it. _

Trephir sat next to him.

“You are thinking of home.” It wasn't a question. 

“About my crew.”

“Tell me about them.”

Gabriel smiled ruefully.

“About you, you mean?” Trephir didn't reply, but the slight twitch of his antennae told Gabriel everything he needed to know. “Alright. There - back home - you're my Chief Medical Officer. A pain in the ass. Just about the only doctor I've ever trusted.”

“A doctor?”

“A damn good one.”

Trephir - not-Trephir - looked away. Gabriel worried briefly that he had done the wrong thing in telling him anything at all. That the thought of a world where there was that kind of opportunity, any kind of opportunity, might be too much, just as the thought of a world where he was capable of causing so much pain kept Gabriel awake at night. But, at last, the Andorian nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Continue.”

And so, Gabriel told him about all of them. About the Helmsman who could outfly anyone or anything Gabriel had ever met. About the Communications Officer who had once successfully made contact with a species whose language was made entirely of colour. About the Ensign who showed promise far beyond his grades. About the Chief of Security who had once carried a member of the team two miles to safety after they got cut off from their landing party. About the First Officer - the  _ Captain _ , now - keeping them all safe until he could get back to them.

Long after Trephir left, Gabriel remained, his back to the wall, unbothered by the increasingly cool breeze, enjoying the sense of space after so many months of incarceration. 

He watched unfamiliar stars dance overhead.

Tried again to chart a course back to the  _ Buran.  _

Back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special mention must go to LizBee, whose work _the meteors these days are the size of corpses_ (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165223) made me realise that Gabriel's time in the Terran jail had to be ... at least 130% worse. Sorry, Gabriel.
> 
> There's only one chapter left. This story is about the _Buran_ , and so I don't intend to go any further into Gabriel's time in the mirrorverse here. But I do promise closure to his story, and to the story of the crew. And maybe a little hope.


	9. ... the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a very brief, non-graphic, mention of suicidal thoughts.

**_Fifteen years later_ **

_ ABERYSTWYTH, WALES: APRIL 2271. _

 

It rained. Of course it did.

Spring in bloody Aberystwyth.

The families of the crew had travelled from all corners of the Federation to be at the ceremony. They had been afraid that no-one else would remember, or care, after the passage of so many years. They needn't have worried. Command had turned out in force, Fleet Admiral Cornwell foremost among them, and a crowd had gathered in spite of the weather, huddled in clumps under shared umbrellas, to watch the official unveiling of the memorial. 

Fifteen years after her last mission, the  _ Buran _ had finally come home. 

_ Dedicated to the memory of those souls lost on board the USS  _ Buran

_ April 2256 _

_ “And the end of all our exploring  _ __   
_ Will be to arrive where we started  _ _   
_ __ And know the place for the first time.”

No-one paid much attention to the grey-haired, bearded man who stood almost to attention at the very edge of the crowd, his eyes fixed straight ahead throughout the proceedings. 

The ceremony closed and the crowd slowly dispersed, until there were only a couple of figures left gazing at the monument.

“Dylan?”

Dylan turned to see the grey-haired man standing next to him.

“Your speech was excellent. Jo- Angharad would have liked it.”

His accent was American. Somewhere from the south, was about as close as Dylan could place it, having spent little time in the States beyond the Academy. The man spoke in a measured, quiet tone. Like every word was precious. Or rationed.

“Thank you. Do I..?” began Dylan. The older man shook his head.  _ Don't worry. _

“Last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a Dakala bug. Wouldn't expect you to remember.”

Dylan had the strangest sensation of a moment he only half-recalled. Being lifted onto the shoulders of a man who had seemed like an impossible giant. A booming voice quick to turn to laughter. Strange food with secret messages hidden inside. But the memory, if it really was a memory, was hazy, and he couldn’t work out its connection to the quiet, grave, slightly-built stranger beside him.

“Are you Starfleet?” he asked, at last.

“Civilian.”

“But not always.”

“Very observant.”

“Thought so. You don't stand like one. A civilian, I mean.” 

“Been ten years. Still finding my land legs.”

The two stood in silence for a moment. Dylan took in the network of scars that trailed around the man's hands like a map, disappearing under the sleeves of his shirt. He shook himself, realising he was staring.

“Were you … did you fight in the war?” Dylan asked, his curiosity getting the better of his manners.

The older man paused. 

“In a manner of speaking.” He caught Dylan's expression out of the corner of his eye. “It's classified.”

Dylan got the impression that that would be the answer to a lot of the questions he had.

“When do you ship out?” asked his companion abruptly, nodding to Dylan's spotless new uniform and Ensign’s pips.

“End of the month.”

“Engineering?”

“How did you--?”

“Figures.” The man smiled. “She always had you tipped for Engineering. When you were … four, I think, you visited the  _ Buran _ with your mom. Jones -  _ Angharad _ \- put you in the command chair. For a joke. Twenty seconds later, you'd locked the doors to the bridge and reset the ship's computer to Vulcan. Took almost an hour before someone got the accent right.”

Dylan blinked.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Oh, that story was legendary.” The smile faded from the man’s face, as if it was lost in unfamiliar territory there. 

“What does Harri think? About you joining Starfleet?” he asked eventually.

“She … didn't like it. Not at first. But she understands now. I think it actually helps a bit, weirdly. Like it keeps Annie close. I don't know.” He shrugged. “I just want to make her proud.”

“You will.” The grey-haired man looked at the memorial. “Angharad would have been proud of you, too.”

“I hope so.”

“I know she would.” He shook his head fondly. “You are so much like her.” 

“Mum always says that. Doesn't make any sense, really.”

“Families rarely do.”

Dylan sniffed. His cheeks were wet, not just with rain.

“I miss her,” he admitted. “Still.”

“Me too. All of them. All the time.”

They stood in silence a while, each lost in their own memories.

“Oh.” Dylan, the first to break their reverie, patted his pockets as though he had just remembered something important. He pulled out a sheet of paper, slightly dog-eared, folded and re-folded many times over the years.

A child's drawing of the  _ Buran.  _ All four nacelles present and correct, the registry number slightly wonky but in the right spot. And on top of the saucer section--

“She can see space better from up there,” Dylan said preemptively, noticing his companion’s furrowed brow. He laughed and held it at arm's length, inspecting it anew. He shrugged. “Annie liked it, anyway.”

He carefully tucked the drawing against the memorial, in a spot where it was sheltered from the rain. 

Dylan straightened back up.

“We're having a bit of a do, if you’d like to join us? A lot of the families are coming,” he offered. “It’s not far from here.”

The man put his head on one side and closed his eyes, a faint smile playing around his lips, as though he was trying to recall something.

“The rugby club?” he ventured.

“Where else? We can give you a lift if you--"

“No. Thank you. I'm not really one for parties.”

Dylan nodded.

“Right. Well, I'd better go. Don't want to be late.”

“She wouldn't mind if you were.”

“Probably not,” Dylan laughed.

The grey-haired man held out a hand.

“Take care, Dylan.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

Dylan only realised when he caught up with his mum, a little way down the road, that he had never actually got the man's name. 

Gabriel watched Dylan go, relieved that he hadn't been recognised, that Harri hadn’t seen him. He had no wish to see either of them hurt all over again by broadcasting his identity today. 

Although the Federation had, eventually, expunged Gabriel's record of the crimes of his counterpart and re-classified the files about the  _ Buran _ , spinning a tale of covert operations and undercover work, his name was still synonymous with cowardice. The Captain who had refused to go down with his ship. The soldier who had gone AWOL for five years. Even if he had managed to pass his psych evals - even if he'd  _ wanted _ to - no crew would have ever chosen to serve under him again. He was relegated to the footnotes of a particularly unpleasant chapter in the history of the war. It suited Gabriel fine. Better retirement in relative anonymity than the hushed voices and angry glances that had followed him everywhere when he had finally made it home, after all those years  _ there _ .

Getting home, he had soon discovered, wasn't the same as  _ being _ home.

_ “There's … there's something else you need to know.” _

Kat had sheltered him from the worst of the truth for as long as she could. Made sure that no-one told him what had happened until he was physically strong enough to stand a chance of processing the news. 

_ “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” _

His final journey home, mapped forever in the scars on his hands and arms, had near enough killed him. 

_ “Say something. Gabriel. Please say something.” _

Losing the  _ Buran _ had made him wish he hadn't survived. 

Kat had cried when he told her that. He remembered being vaguely surprised, somewhere deep under the heavy nothingness that had buried him in the days after learning the truth. That he'd said something terrible enough to shock  _ Kat.  _

It had taken days before the numbness ebbed and he shed tears of his own. Weeks more until the rage subsided enough to accept offers of help. Months of nightmares. Years of work. 

He learned, gradually, that surviving wasn't the same as being alive. 

It turned out Jones was right. He really was a stubborn bastard.

There had been one last battle to fight. To be forbidden to tell his story was one thing. To allow his crew’s story to be erased so unceremoniously, to allow them to be forgotten too, was another.

After almost a decade, that battle was finally over.

Gabriel rested a hand on the monument, tracing his fingers against the rain-specked names engraved there as though they weren't already etched into his soul. 

There had been just one, small, amendment to the list. It was the reason the memorial was _here_ , of all places.

_ Captain Angharad Jones _

It seemed right. And, in the end, it had been true.

When the  _ Buran  _ had needed a Captain, Jones had been right on time.

Kat was waiting for him, umbrella drawn, at the door of the shuttle. 

Gabriel felt his breath catch in his throat. 

He didn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or the existence of some great eternal plan - couldn’t, had seen too much proof of the meaningless chaos that underpinned the universe, every universe - but every time he looked at her he allowed himself an exception to that rule.

She had been broken and forced to heal too quickly, too many times during the years he had been gone. But she had hidden the scars so well, carried the pain - her pain, his pain, everyone's pain - so convincingly, that at first, to his shame, he hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t understood that she was buckling under the weight of the expectations and grief of the entire Federation. Hadn't realised that she was as lost as he was. 

Hadn't realised that not being at war wasn't the same as being at peace. 

They both lived with the ghosts of a thousand what-ifs. 

They had resolved that there wouldn’t be any more.

After years of maybe, later,  _ not yet _ , they found time. Took time. Made time. Learned, slowly, to trust eachother again. Learned to be gentle again, to be patient, until, at last, touches were no longer met with flinches, and silence gave way to words. Kissed away the hard edges that their wars had set on them. Found forgiveness, together, in the dark, found solace in the light. Helped to rebuild eachother from the ground up, over and over again. Rebuilt routines. Rebuilt home. 

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But it was theirs. And it was enough.

She nodded to the chronometer with a smile.

“Three minutes late. I was about to send a search party.”

He stepped under the umbrella, close to her, and pushed his damp hair back from his forehead.

“Just saying goodbye to old friends.”

She looked at him carefully, taking in every line and scar on his face, the fingers of her free hand tracing the set of his jaw.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“No.” He took her hand, pressed it to his lips. Held it like it tethered him to the ground. “But getting better. Every day. A bit better.”

Not being at war wasn't the same as being at peace. Surviving wasn't the same as being alive. Getting home wasn't the same as being home. Even now, there was still a distance left to travel. 

Kat gave his hand a small squeeze, and turned to board the shuttle. 

They would make the journey together.

Automatically, Gabriel reached to check that it was there. It was, of course. It always was. In the inside pocket of his jacket, closest to his heart. A small slip of paper, tattered, stained, almost completely faded after twenty-five years, but still just about legible. Reminding him of the choice he had made every day in that place, and every day since.

_ Hate is never conquered by hate. Hate is conquered by love. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, there we go. 
> 
> (This is the first multi-chapter fic I've managed to finish in ... just over a decade, I think, and I am ... surprisingly emotional about that fact.) 
> 
> Schmoopy big thanks to everyone who stuck this thing out until the end; I wish it was a happier ending, but I hope, all in all, that it's the right ending.
> 
> Thanks for all the genuinely lovely comments (some of which are going straight into my Sad Day Emergency Fund), and huge thanks again to LizBee for her insightful beta reading of/talking me down from completely binning That Chapter. 
> 
> And thanks to Angharad, who worked her way into my brain, and then my heart, and never, ever gave up.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a long, rambling headcanon post all about Lorca as Captain of the USS Buran (https://lorcaswhisky.tumblr.com/post/171769945202/i-made-myself-sad-thinking-about-captain-gabriel), and couldn't quite get it out of my head. This is the result. Sorry.


End file.
